The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by Magnus Mills

  Brigant, meanwhile, withdrew to his northern hideaway.

  This was the state of affairs for the rest of the morning. One by one, Hen, Hartopp and the others turned out to greet another day, only to be met by the sight of the three conical tents. Last to emerge was Isabella. The sun had risen quite high when I saw her tiptoe to the water’s edge. As usual, she discarded her towel and slipped into the river, swimming a few widths before drifting gently downstream. When she neared the shimmering white tent she paused briefly in the shallows, then headed upriver once again. Isabella completed her daily exercise and came ashore, apparently unaware of developments on the southern bank.

  A little later, however, after she’d dressed, I saw her gazing across at the neighbouring field. She stood for a long while shading her eyes with her hand, as if studying the landscape in detail, then she came and spoke to me.

  ‘I see there are some new arrivals,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘They’ve been here since early morning.’

  ‘I like their pointy tents.’

  ‘Guessed you might.’

  ‘Don’t like the colour though.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Of all the colours in the world, they go and choose buff!’ she said with disdain. ‘Even their clothes! Honestly, some people have no sense of gaiety.’

  ‘Apart from him,’ I remarked.

  Isabella knew exactly who I was talking about. One of the men seemed somehow different from his comrades. He was tall in stature and noticeably bronzed, and wore a purple sash over his tunic. I presumed from his deportment that he was their leader: occasionally he strode amongst them dishing out commands, but at present he was standing alone near the river, contemplating the Great Field as it lay spread out before him.

  ‘Yes, well, he is rather exceptional,’ said Isabella.

  ‘I think he’s a bit of a show-off,’ I said, ‘parading up and down in that purple sash of his.’

  We watched as he rejoined the other men and issued a stream of orders. Immediately they abandoned their posts and vanished inside two of the tents. Their leader waited for a few moments, took a final glance across the river, then retired into the third tent.

  ‘I expect they need some sleep if they’ve been travelling all night,’ I said. ‘I imagine they’ve come a long way.’

  ‘From the far south, I suppose,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘most probably.’

  As the afternoon passed, the newcomers became a source of increasing conjecture among the rest of us. In due course, Hartopp’s elder son, Hollis, went down to the crossing to get a closer view of the three tents. On his return, he reported that the fluttering pennants all bore the letter J.

  ‘I wonder what they want?’ said Hartopp.

  ‘A place to stay, perhaps,’ I suggested.

  ‘Then why don’t they cross the river?’

  This was a good question. Throughout the evening, muffled conversations could be heard inside various tents as the subject was earnestly pondered. Even Hen came over from the west to join the debate. No conclusions were reached, however, and by the following day nothing had changed.

  I arose early and looked southward. The men in the other field were already out and about, but at first I could see no sign of their leader. After a while, though, I spotted him patrolling the river bank in the east. He was more or less opposite Isabella’s crimson tent, which he studied briefly from his vantage point before moving on. He treated Hartopp’s small encampment to the same cursory examination, then he turned and headed back the way he’d come, pausing only to glance at the shimmering white tent. Thomas, it should be mentioned, had remained aloof during the previous evening’s discussions. Hitherto, I’d assumed that the continuing presence of the newcomers would be enough to spur him into action, and indeed Hen had expressed a similar view. After all, it was Thomas who swanked around as if he owned the place, and whose tent dominated the lush pastures of the south-east. Yet he’d done nothing beyond quietly observing the situation from his doorway.

  Now, as the bronzed individual passed by on the other side of the river, I wondered who would make the next move.

  Isabella, needless to say, was allowing nobody to impinge on her daily routine. Around mid-morning she emerged from her tent, tiptoed to the bank, discarded her towel and slipped into the water. I thought she swam rather more vigorously than usual, and she also spent less time drifting inertly downstream. The cause for this may have been a recent change in the weather: the long sultry period was coming to an end at last. The sun still shone brightly, but a breeze was rising and the temperature had dropped a little. Isabella evidently made up the difference by summoning a burst of energy. Afterwards, when she’d dried and dressed, she came over to see me and Hen. We were standing by my tent, just like the day before, gazing into the south. This was now our main pastime. Ever since the arrival of the newcomers, we’d all become preoccupied with events in the neighbouring field. To tell the truth, we did nothing except watch them while they watched us. Although nobody would admit it, the worst problem was the interminable waiting. With these outsiders seemingly poised to strike across the river at any minute, it was difficult to enjoy the peace and tranquillity to which we were accustomed. Isabella was particularly impatient for the matter to be resolved.

  ‘Come on then, if you’re coming,’ she murmured, her eyes fixed on the distant sentinels.

  ‘They’re certainly biding their time,’ remarked Hen. ‘Unless, of course, they’re undecided about what to do next.’

  ‘Well,’ said Isabella, ‘I wish they’d make their minds up.’

  Suddenly, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt impelled to put an end to the deadlock. Without a word to the others I set off towards the crossing, uncertain of exactly what I would do when I got there. The men at the other side saw me approaching, but stayed where they were: obviously they were allowing me to come to them. I was struck by the thought that this could be viewed either as a tactical advantage or a sign of weakness. Either way, there was no turning back now, so I entered the shallows and waded to the opposite bank. As I gained dry land, the man with the purple sash strode forward to meet me.

  The opening exchange was polite enough.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘Morning,’ I replied.

  ‘Weather’s freshening up.’

  ‘Yes, seems that way.’

  ‘I expect the water’s cold.’

  ‘It’s not too bad.’

  He regarded me in silence for a few moments, then nodded at the shimmering white tent.

  ‘That yours, is it?’ he asked.

  He knew very well it wasn’t mine: he and his subordinates had been spying on the field for the past twenty-four hours, and they knew precisely which was my tent, which was Thomas’s and so forth.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘So who’s in charge then?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s an odd arrangement.’

  ‘Not for us, it isn’t. As a matter of fact, it’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  His tone so far had been conversational, probably in an attempt to put me at my ease.

  Now, however, he dispensed with the subtlety.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘State your business.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘some of us who’ve been here for a while were wondering what your plans might be.’

  He gave me a quizzical look. ‘What difference does it make how long you’ve been here?’

  ‘It makes a difference to some,’ I assured him.

  ‘I see.’ He paused briefly before continuing. ‘Our plans,’ he said at length, ‘depend on what’s on offer.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So if you’ll spell out your terms we can take it from there.’

  ‘Right.’

  I was beginning to realize I’d crossed the river entirely unprepared for this encounter.
I had no idea what kind of offer he was referring to, or how it could possibly affect his plans. Moreover, it was becoming clear that I needed to be circumspect in my dealings with these people. I could tell they weren’t here just to play games: on the contrary, the outcome of our meeting could be critical.

  ‘Before we start,’ I said, ‘may I enquire who I’m talking to?’

  ‘I would have assumed you knew that already,’ he answered tersely. ‘I am Julian.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’

  I glanced towards the three conical tents, where the other men stood observing the proceedings. From the peak of each tent flew a white pennant, emblazoned with a purple letter J.

  Julian, in the meantime, was waiting for my next move.

  ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll probably need to consult with the others,’ I replied.

  ‘Consult?’ he repeated. ‘But surely you were sent over to negotiate.’

  ‘Sort of, yes,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean “sort of”?’

  Julian’s manner was getting increasingly irritable, unfriendly even, and I was at a loss for what to say next without causing further upset. Just then, however, he began peering into the distance.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Who’s this coming?’

  Immediately I turned and saw Thomas entering the river at the far side, his white robes swirling all around him. Julian instantly forgot about me and marched to the water’s edge; then he stood stock still, waiting, as Thomas drew near. His followers, meanwhile, watched attentively.

  I never thought I’d be pleased to see Thomas wading across the river, but on this occasion I was more than pleased: I was delighted, not to mention thoroughly relieved. Undoubtedly, I’d taken on more than I could handle. All at once, with Thomas riding to my rescue, I felt a great burden being lifted from me.

  Nonetheless, there was a price to pay. As Thomas stepped ashore, he shook hands courteously with Julian. The pair then came wandering inland together, deep in conversation. Evidently, Julian had invited Thomas to inspect the three conical tents. The route they took passed within a few yards of where I was standing, yet neither of them granted me so much as a nod. They simply ignored me and continued on their way. Julian’s underlings witnessed this blatant snub and openly smirked about it amongst themselves. In response, I turned and stalked off to the river bank. Next minute I was in the shallows and heading back towards the Great Field.

  By the time I reached the opposite shore, my mood had subsided into sheer disgruntlement. The episode with Julian had been highly embarrassing, and I was inclined to make directly for my tent and lie low for several days. What I didn’t want to face was a reception committee, so when I saw Isabella and Hartopp coming to meet me I quickened my pace. It was no use, though: they cut across and intercepted me before I reached sanctuary.

  ‘What’s this?’ I demanded. ‘A post-mortem?’

  Hartopp appeared startled by my harsh words.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘we’ve come to congratulate you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A brilliant move,’ he added.

  I stared at him with bewilderment. ‘What move?’

  ‘Don’t be modest,’ said Isabella. ‘It was you who set the wheels in motion. You went and parleyed with the newcomers and prepared the ground for Thomas. Excellent work!’

  For a few moments I allowed myself to bask in this unexpected praise, then I offered a verdict of my own.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘he’ll need to keep his wits about him when he’s talking to those people.’

  ‘Why, what are they like?’ asked Hartopp.

  ‘I only spoke to Julian,’ I replied, ‘and he struck me as a rather prickly customer.’

  ‘Is he the one with the purple sash?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘He looks very athletic,’ said Isabella.

  ‘An apt description,’ I said. ‘Yes, I imagine he’s quite competitive when it comes to the cut and thrust.’

  ‘Still,’ said Hartopp, ‘they’ve only got three tents, so we’ll most likely manage to find them a place.’

  Hartopp was being his usual generous self, but I had a feeling that matters weren’t as simple as he thought. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the newcomers meekly settling amongst the rest of us. The way they’d surveyed the field from a distance suggested that their intentions were altogether much grander; and Julian’s remarks about what might be on offer only underlined my suspicions.

  At the other side of the river, Thomas’s mission was ongoing. We watched as he was given a guided tour of the conical tents; then he sat down for further discussions with Julian. These lasted an hour or so before the pair of them rose abruptly to their feet and headed for the crossing. Side by side they entered the water and waded towards the Great Field.

  ‘Here they come,’ announced Isabella.

  I noted with interest that she didn’t venture down to greet Julian; neither did Hartopp.

  As soon as they stepped ashore, Thomas led his guest to the shimmering white tent, presumably for a reciprocal tour of inspection. Afterwards, Julian spent a good while pacing around in the south-east, gazing in all directions and generally studying the lie of the land. Thomas, in the meantime, stood quietly aside.

  Darkness was falling when I saw Julian returning across the river. Isabella and Hartopp had long since drifted back to their tents, both apparently in the belief that the meeting had reached a satisfactory conclusion. I wasn’t quite so sure. Over the past few days Thomas seemed to have lost much of his previous strut and swagger. For reasons of his own he’d shouldered the mantle of responsibility, but I was uncertain whether he was a match for Julian.

  Unsurprisingly, I had another restless night. In a series of peculiar dreams featuring Isabella, Julian and me, I constantly found myself on the wrong side of the river trying to get across. Sometime after daybreak I woke up all in a tangle and peered out through my doorway. I half-expected Julian’s tents to have moved into the Great Field. To my amazement, however, they’d vanished completely, and so had the shimmering white tent.

  It took me a few seconds to adjust to this drastic change of scenery. The south-east suddenly appeared forsaken and empty without its prize exhibit overlooking the river, and the surrounding fields had a similar air of abandonment. Beneath a grey, overcast sky, an unseasonably brisk wind came gusting out of the east, doing little to enhance the gloomy prospect. With a mounting sense of disquiet I emerged from my tent and glanced all around. Thankfully, nobody else had gone: Isabella, Hartopp, Brigant and Hen were still in their usual places.

  Actually, Hen was already up and about, and when he saw me he came sauntering over.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Quite a change from yesterday.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘The birds have flown.’

  ‘Did you see them go?’

  ‘Yes, very early,’ said Hen. ‘They all went off together.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Those other people helped Thomas with his tent, then the entire company headed southward.’

  Hen’s disclosure was most intriguing, and for a while I pondered the information in silence.

  Over at the far side of the field we could see Hollis slowly making his way along the river bank, pausing from time to time at the various viewpoints. Keeping a respectful distance, he skirted around Isabella’s crimson abode before continuing towards the south-east. When he reached the turn of the river he stopped and peered at the ground. I knew precisely what he was looking at: he was examining the octagonal impression left in the grass by Thomas’s tent. Over the past few weeks I’d noticed that Hollis approached most subjects in a forensic manner, a trait which I supposed he’d inherited from Hartopp. He seemed fascinated by everything scientific, mechanical, mathematical and, in this case, geometrical.

  Hen, who was still standing beside me, said nothing. Was he tempted, I wondered, to go and see the impression for himself, just to con
firm that Thomas had definitely gone?

  Hollis, meanwhile, had resumed his journey along the river bank, and was now on the southern stretch. When he neared the crossing he halted for a moment as if contemplating his options, then without further delay he entered the water and waded to the other side. As Hen and I looked on, he went ashore and headed for the spot where the three conical tents had stood. Once again he inspected the ground, closely studying the impression left by Julian and his comrades.

  ‘Did you find out what they wanted?’ asked Hen, finally breaking the silence.

  ‘Not really, no,’ I replied. ‘It was all rather vague.’

  ‘Maybe Thomas found out.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ I said, ‘but we’ll probably never know.’

  Eventually Hollis turned and retraced his steps back to the north-east. Whether he’d learnt anything from his investigations was unclear, but Hen and I were certainly no wiser than he was. A great unanswered question now hung over the field, a question that would dominate everyone’s thoughts and conversations during the succeeding days. Despite endless conjecture, nobody could explain the swift departure of both Thomas and Julian’s people.

  There was also a secondary matter for consideration, raised largely at the behest of Isabella.

  ‘The field looks completely wrong now,’ she announced, one blustery afternoon. ‘It’s all gone out of balance.’

  She was referring to the emptiness of the south-east, her implication being that the vacant space should be taken over by one of us.

  ‘Why don’t you move then?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, I’m perfectly happy where I am,’ she said. ‘I actually meant you.’

  I could see the logic of her argument. In reality, I was the only candidate. Neither Hartopp nor Brigant showed the slightest inclination to head southward, and I knew that Hen was firmly embedded in the west. The trouble for me, as always, lay with the impression in the grass. Once again I was reluctant to transplant my tent until all traces of the previous occupant had faded away. Therefore, I decided to stay where I was for the present.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Isabella, ‘but you’re missing a golden opportunity.’