The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by Magnus Mills

  By now, of course, we’d all heard about Isabella rejecting the invitation. Brigant and I discussed it one afternoon as the sky darkened.

  ‘It sounded most luxurious,’ I said. ‘Hot water in abundance, handmaidens, freshly laundered towels.’

  ‘Decadent, more like,’ uttered Brigant.

  ‘To tell the truth, I would welcome a hot bath myself.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but it’s Isabella they’re trying to tame, not you.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that,’ I replied. ‘Still, it’s a pity the bath’s gone unused, especially with the weather on the turn.’

  ‘Why?’ said Brigant. ‘Are you finding life in the field too tough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well stop being so soft then!’

  This wasn’t the first time Brigant had spoken in such terms. He was becoming increasingly intolerant of the soft life, as he called it. Other targets included frailty and decadence, but the general heading was softness (he tended to forget that he was once quite soft himself). It all arose from his division of the field into upper and lower parts. The division was purely notional, a product of his own invention, but Brigant was unbending in his belief. Over recent weeks he’d developed the idea further, and concluded that life became steadily harder the higher up the slope someone lived, as if it was a sort of sliding scale. Personally, I couldn’t see any difference: we all endured exactly the same weather conditions, seasonal changes and so on. Moreover, as I mentioned before, the slope barely amounted to anything; indeed it was scarcely perceptible, a minor inconvenience at worst. Nevertheless, Brigant insisted that life was harsher in the upper field.

  His theory was about to be put to the test. After another day of threatening skies and rising winds, the rain finally came sweeping in. It was heavy and unremitting and didn’t cease for a week, during which period we were all confined to our tents. In these circumstances, there was nothing to do except wait patiently for the end. Even so, we had to endure a very dreary spell. For hour after hour, I listened to the sound of rain drumming on my roof. When I peeked out through my opening I could see the entire south-eastern encampment reduced to an indeterminate blur of dripping canvas; there was no sign of movement; puddles were forming in the avenues; and even the numerous flags and pennants were hanging down limp and wet. Over in the north-east, Hartopp’s angular tent appeared equally lifeless, though no doubt he was sheltering under his awning, eagerly testing its resistance to the weather and recording the facts for future reference. Meanwhile, hunched beneath his flysheet, Brigant sat and glowered at the driving rain.

  Eventually my gaze fell on Isabella’s tent, faraway to the east. I’d never been invited beyond its tasselled portal, but I assumed the interior was dry, warm and cosy. I knew it was furnished with a tapestry and a collection of velvet cushions: I’d watched her carefully installing them on the day she arrived. There was also an eiderdown. Apart from that I knew nothing. She’d positioned her tent facing west so that she could catch the sun going down at the end of each day. As a consequence, it lay in my direct line of vision. I’d seen it on countless occasions and could even picture it with my eyes closed. Isabella’s door was always in view, yet she remained forever unapproachable. She’d made it plain from the beginning that she preferred to be alone; she was independent and forthright; furthermore, as her admirers had discovered, she was notoriously difficult to please. Still, I continued to live in hope. Isabella’s tent was crimson on the outside, sometimes flaring into fiery red, but I liked to imagine it was lined with cloth of gold.

  When at last the rain subsided, I emerged to find the ground underfoot very wet indeed. It made coming and going unpleasant for a day or two. The problem was most pronounced in the south-east. No sooner had the sky cleared than I saw Aldebaran and his officials pacing around the encampment, prodding at the turf with rods and generally assessing the situation. Later I saw several of their men digging gullies between the tents. Obviously the area was waterlogged and they were taking appropriate measures.

  Ever since arriving, the newcomers had seldom ventured beyond their self-imposed boundary: this was a point which had always stood in their favour. For some reason they were only interested in occupying their own corner, and the rest of the field they left untouched. I was intrigued, therefore, when I noticed the surveyor and an assistant walking along the river bank in the east. The assistant was carrying a large spool of string, a mallet and some wooden pegs. I saw Isabella peering out at them as they skirted her crimson tent, but they continued on their way with no more than a polite nod. I could now see that the surveyor was taking very deliberate strides, as if gauging a particular distance. Finally, the two of them came to a halt. The assistant knocked a peg into the ground and attached the string. Next, the surveyor produced an object from his pocket and examined it closely. It transpired that this was a compass; in due course he despatched his assistant westward with the spool of string, the mallet and another peg. The string was gradually paid out as he advanced across the field. I thought he passed unnecessarily close to Brigant’s tent (there was, after all, plenty of room on either side), but he pressed on regardless. Fortunately, Brigant was elsewhere at the time. When the string ran out the assistant stopped and waited. He hadn’t quite reached Hen’s territory in the extreme west, but apparently he’d gone far enough to satisfy the surveyor. At a given signal he knocked the second peg into the ground and pulled the string tight. Immediately it snagged on Brigant’s tent. The surveyor gave it a flick from his end to try and straighten it, but again it snagged. Unperturbed, the assistant tied the string to the peg and returned to join the surveyor. After a brief discussion, they headed back along the river towards the camp.

  As soon as they were out of sight, I went over to investigate. The string was fairly taut and chafed against Brigant’s flysheet. Patently the plan had been to set out a straight line between the pegs, but the tent had got in the way.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ said a voice beside me. It belonged to Brigant. He’d been visiting Hartopp and had just come back. I explained to him about the surveyor and his assistant.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘couldn’t they have asked me before they started?’

  ‘You weren’t here,’ I replied. ‘Maybe they decided to leave it till tomorrow and then ask.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ said Brigant, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  We were still debating the matter when Isabella arrived. She’d observed the episode with the string and was naturally incensed.

  ‘You should march into their camp,’ she told Brigant, ‘and demand they remove that string at once!’

  ‘I can’t be bothered,’ he said. ‘It’s probably easier to shift my tent.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ said Isabella. ‘You’d be giving in to them.’

  ‘Really, I don’t mind,’ said Brigant, with a sigh. ‘All I want is a quiet life. Besides, I’ve been thinking of moving further up the field for a good while now. It’s more interesting in the north.’

  Despite Isabella’s protestations, Brigant was adamant, so later the same day I went and helped him take his tent down. He chose a pitch some distance up the slope, and together we moved everything.

  ‘It’ll be good to get that trumpet out of earshot,’ he remarked, when we’d finished our work.

  I was tempted to correct Brigant on two counts, but I thought better of it and made no comment.

  The offending length of string now lay perfectly straight across the field. Next morning, the surveyor and his assistant returned for a brief inspection, nodded their heads in approval, then went away again.

  Around noon, when milk pudding was normally being served in the field kitchen, a small party of men left the encampment and followed the river to the spot where the string line began. They were carrying spades, pick-axes and shovels. It was a slightly odd scene: despite their plentiful stock of tools, these characters seemed distinctly unworkmanlike. They straggled along dragging their h
eels, and were plainly in no hurry to begin whatever task they’d been assigned. In this respect they were quite different from the other men in the camp: the majority performed their duties with flawless efficiency. The present bunch, by contrast, hardly knew where to start. They stood around, gawping at the peg and the length of string as though they’d never seen such items before; then they turned and gazed haplessly into the west. Eventually one of them started poking at the ground with his spade, but to such little effect that he soon gave up. Another tried a pick-axe, and similarly failed to make any impression. I was getting frustrated just watching their antics, so after a while I strolled casually across the field, drifting in their general direction but trying my best to remain aloof. I didn’t really want to get involved with the newcomers again, but on the other hand I was interested to know what they were trying to do. There was no harm, I reasoned, in taking a closer look.

  I received a shock, however, as I drew nearer the gang of workers. All at once I recognized the cooks from the field kitchen: the very same men who until recently had stirred my milk pudding. Among them was the cook who’d served me on my first visit to the encampment. His name was Yadegarian and he’d told me about the various types of pudding on offer. As I recalled, his advice had been most helpful. I’d met his colleagues on subsequent days, and they’d struck me as a friendly bunch. Today, though, I couldn’t help noticing how downcast they all appeared. When they saw me approaching they ceased their futile endeavours and regarded me listlessly.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What are you fellows doing here?’

  ‘We’re supposed to be digging a trench,’ said Yadegarian, ‘but we’re not really cut out for this sort of work.’

  ‘So why’ve you got to do it?’

  By way of answer, he and the other cooks merely bowed their heads. It was almost as if they were ashamed of something.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ I asked.

  They all looked at one another for a moment, then Yadegarian spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we are.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We produced a shortage of milk pudding. We measured the ingredients in the wrong quantities.’

  ‘Not again!’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And this is your punishment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘What kind of regime is it, exactly?’

  The cooks ventured no opinion. Instead, they just stood there, silent and forlorn.

  I puffed out my cheeks and stared thoughtfully at the length of string stretching away into the distance.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it looks as if you’ve no choice but to get on with the job.’

  ‘But we’ve no idea how to do it!’ protested Yadegarian. He was plainly very concerned.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I replied. ‘I can give you a few pointers.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, for instance, you’re all wearing sandals. They’re wholly inappropriate for heavy labouring: you’d be much better off in proper workboots.’

  I indicated my own footwear.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Yadegarian, with a glimmer of recognition. ‘I think we can get those from our quartermaster.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible then.’

  ‘Alright.’

  With a wave of my hand I grouped the cooks around me so they could see what I was talking about.

  ‘Next,’ I continued, ‘you’ll need to learn about the wide range of tools at your disposal. Each has a specific role: pick-axes are for breaking up the earth; spades are for digging; shovels are for excavation: you’ll soon get the hang of it and then I can show you how to use them correctly.’

  In order to get the job started, I grabbed a spade and dug the first section of ground myself. The going was fairly easy, and I soon had the beginnings of a trench. Alongside it lay a neat pile of earth.

  ‘There you are,’ I said. ‘Just use the string line as a guide and it should be nice and straight when it’s finished.’

  Obviously I couldn’t leave them unsupervised, at least not until they’d tried doing it themselves, so I watched while they took turns with the spades, shovels and picks. Initially they struggled, but I offered plenty of encouragement and gradually they developed a suitable work rate. Even so, it had become clear that digging the trench was no small undertaking. By my reckoning, the job could last four or five days. In the meantime, I assumed the cooks were excused kitchen duties. When I asked them, however, they all shook their heads.

  ‘The demands of the kitchen remain the same,’ explained Yadegarian. ‘We’re having to get up extra early just to keep on top of everything.’

  ‘How early?’

  ‘Well, this morning we were baking biscuits before dawn.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I like biscuits.’

  ‘They’re our speciality,’ said Yadegarian.

  ‘Not milk pudding?’

  ‘No.’

  I mentioned that Hartopp was a keen advocate of biscuits and always maintained a copious stock; but Yadegarian seemed too preoccupied by the present task to absorb the information. It was patently weighing heavily upon him.

  Naturally, I felt rather guilty about standing idly by when the cooks had been working all hours. Therefore, I decided to pitch in and help them finish the trench. I selected a shovel as my weapon of choice; then I set to and laboured until late afternoon. With an extra man in the team we made excellent progress, though the cooks began to flag when evening drew near. Finally, at dusk, I suggested we called a halt, and they thanked me for my assistance before wandering back to the encampment. The trench was starting to take definite shape and form, and as I gazed at our handiwork I suddenly realized that neither Hartopp, Brigant nor any of the others had been over to have a look. It was too late now, of course, because it was almost dark, but I was surprised that nobody had come and shown any interest in the project. Actually, when I thought about it, they were all noticeable by their absence, and vaguely I wondered what could be the reason.

  8

  On the third evening I received a visit from Aldebaran. I was tidying up after another day’s work when I saw him approaching from the south-east, evidently with the purpose of inspecting the trench. I was glad to see him: the job was three-quarters complete and I was looking forward to showing him what we’d accomplished. Our trench was deep and wide and unerringly straight, all in accordance with the surveyor’s plans. As a matter of fact, I was so pleased with the cooks that I’d let them go off slightly earlier than usual. I thought they’d earned a bit of a break, especially since it had been so warm during the afternoon. The fine weather had returned at last, and in the dry conditions we’d made good headway. Now, with night falling, the sky was tinged pink and silver. As the sun sank towards the horizon, Aldebaran’s advancing figure cast a long shadow across the field.

  When he reached the trench he paused and stood peering in.

  ‘Exemplary,’ he declared. ‘Should be very effective.’

  ‘Couple more days and it’ll be finished,’ I said, ‘providing the weather holds.’

  ‘I gather you’ve taken charge of the operation.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I affirmed. ‘They seem to work much better when they receive direct orders.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Aldebaran reflected for a moment, and then said, ‘It’s a shame we can’t reward you with some milk pudding. Unfortunately, there’s been a hiatus in the production process and we’ve run out entirely.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘The cooks told me all about it.’

  Aldebaran glanced at me.

  ‘Been blubbing to you, have they?’ he asked.

  ‘No, on the contrary,’ I replied, ‘they’ve taken their punishment in their stride.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They’re turning into a proper workforce.’

  ‘Then plainly we’re in your debt.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ I said. ‘Glad to be of a
ssistance.’

  After this courteous exchange I accompanied Aldebaran as he walked the length of the trench. For a while he was silent, but then another thought occurred to him.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘it’s not punishment: it’s discipline.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

  ‘No need to apologize,’ he remarked. ‘Just setting you straight, that’s all. We’re very particular about these details.’

  ‘Right.’

  The inspection now being over, Aldebaran murmured some pleasantry and departed. I spent a few minutes watching the sunset, then returned to the comparative comfort of my tent. I slept well that night, just as I had every night since I’d been involved with the venture. It had been hard graft, but quite fulfilling in its own way, and now the end was in sight.

  9

  During the course of the excavations, an earthwork had been raised along one side of the trench. We’d made a fairly good job of it, packing the earth hard so that it wouldn’t collapse, then crowning it with a layer of turf. The resulting embankment looked formidable, a landmark in its own right, but it was soon to be a source of dissension.

  Around mid-afternoon on the fourth day I was toiling alone in the middle section of the trench, making sure that it ran evenly. For various reasons I’d become separated from my co-workers who were further over to the west, but I could still hear occasional snatches of distant conversation. I stopped and listened. Several times in recent days I’d tried to explain to them that talking on the job was a distraction which reduced productivity. Nevertheless, they persisted in chattering whenever my back was turned. I was just about to walk along the trench and reprimand them, when a familiar voice addressed me from directly above. I looked up and saw Brigant standing on the edge, gazing down.