The Field of the Cloth of Gold (11 page)

Hen mentioned to me privately that he wasn’t sure whether he liked the people in charge of the encampment. In his opinion the cooks were being severely overworked for little or no recompense. Furthermore, there had been absolutely no public consultation when the trench was commissioned: the project had simply started without any warning. True enough, he said, they’d made no attempt as yet to encroach on his part of the field; but who could tell where their future ambitions may lie?

‘It was much better when Thomas held the south-east,’ Hen concluded. ‘He always treated boundaries with respect.’

After the cooks had tidied up, I asked them to collect together all the entrenching tools so they could be returned to the quartermaster. This was a minor chore, likely to take a few minutes at the most. While I waited, I pondered Hen’s words and decided he had scant cause for alarm.

There was, of course, one other person who hadn’t been consulted. Isabella’s tent was situated in the east of the field, which meant she stood to gain from the improvements. Even so, she’d shown a conspicuous lack of interest in the ongoing work, preferring to spend her time bathing undisturbed in the river. This was wholly understandable: the drainage scheme was hardly glamorous and, besides, the commencement of the trench had coincided with the return of the warm weather. Isabella remained gloriously disengaged, far from the hustle and bustle, and we hadn’t seen much of her for days. Therefore, I was caught unawares when she suddenly appeared at the foot of the embankment.

She was looking as radiant as ever.

‘Finished all your digging, have you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘The job’s complete.’

‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘So, when are you planning to fill it back in?’

‘We’re not.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We’re not filling it back in.’

‘What!’ Isabella’s face darkened. ‘You can’t leave it like this!’

‘It’s perfectly normal practice,’ I said. ‘An open trench is most effective.’

‘But you’ve ruined our beautiful meadow!’

‘Well, not me personally.’

‘Yes, you personally!’ she snapped. ‘You can’t blame anyone else!’

‘But I was only helping.’

‘No, you weren’t! You practically took the job over! It’s been the same from the very start: you just can’t resist sticking your nose in! Ever since those people arrived, you’ve gone out of your way to do their dirty work, no matter how much disruption you cause, no matter how much irretrievable loss; and you do it all for a mess of pottage!’

Isabella fell silent and stood glaring at me with unconcealed resentment.

‘Milk pudding, actually,’ I said.

The remark was intended to lighten the tone of the conversation, but I knew at once that it was a mistake.

‘Cross me at your peril,’ said Isabella, before turning and marching away.

I watched her diminishing figure as she headed across the field; and I wondered how on earth I could ever regain her favour. Even worse, I realized that the entire tirade had been witnessed by the cooks. They’d finished collecting the tools and were now waiting quietly nearby.

‘My apologies for that,’ I said. ‘She’s not very happy about the trench.’

‘No,’ replied Yadegarian, ‘so we gathered.’

‘Got everything then?’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘A couple of the spades are missing.’

‘Ah.’

‘We’ve searched all over the place but there’s no sign of them.’

‘Perhaps they’ll turn up in a day or two.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

‘I’ll keep a sharp lookout.’

‘Thanks.’

The moment had come to disband our fledgling workforce. I shook hands with each of them; then they set off towards the encampment.

‘I’ll see you when I drop in for my dish and spoon,’ I said.

‘Alright,’ said Yadegarian. ‘Bye.’

When I returned to my tent I discovered it had gone slack in my absence. It was in a very sorry state: plainly I’d been so concerned with the trench that I’d failed to carry out any basic maintenance. The fault was easily rectified, a question of tightening a few guy ropes, but it did nothing to reduce the sense of gloom that threatened to engulf me. The job’s termination had left me with a profound feeling of emptiness. Not only had I parted with the cooks who I’d been working alongside all week, but I was now in danger of being ostracized by my friends and neighbours. Indeed, judging by recent events, I was close to becoming an outcast.

A few days later, however, I was given the chance to redeem my reputation. Around dusk I received a visit from Hartopp’s younger son Eldred. Like his father, he was an amiable person and I was pleasantly surprised when he turned up at my doorway. Nonetheless, he’d chosen an unusual time to come calling. It was almost dark when he arrived, and I also noticed that he approached by a circuitous route, rather than crossing the field directly. All this suggested some kind of subterfuge was afoot, and when he spoke in hushed tones my suspicions were confirmed.

‘Isabella’s looking for volunteers,’ he said quietly. ‘She intends to harry the south-east.’

‘Is this because of the trench?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, partly,’ said Eldred, ‘but we’re fed up with the newcomers in general, so we want to teach them a lesson.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘So far it’s Isabella, Hollis and me, but you’re more than welcome to join us.’

‘And what’s the plan?’

‘We’re going to raid the encampment and let down a few of their tents.’

He was unable to provide further details, and I began to wonder if any of this had been properly thought through. It didn’t seem to have occurred to Eldred (or, more likely, Isabella) that what they proposed was the equivalent of pulling a tiger’s tail. Letting down other people’s tents was undoubtedly satisfying, but it was bound to lead to reprisals. Moreover, it would be quite obvious who the culprits were. The notion of ‘harrying the south-east’ may have sounded romantic to these youngsters, but it was a sure-fire recipe for trouble.

Even if these qualms had been set aside, though, I would still have felt reluctant to get involved with the conspiracy. From a personal viewpoint I’d always found the newcomers both courteous and civil, despite their random displays of insensitivity. The fact that I’d partaken of their milk pudding also needed to be considered. I had no wish to be seen as their lackey (which Isabella had so forcefully implied), but at the same time I harboured no particular gripe against them. On balance, then, I decided not to participate in the raid.

I explained my reasons to Eldred, and he accepted them with good grace before bidding me farewell and heading back to the north-east. All the same, he was certain to report our exchange to Isabella: consequently, I’d be even deeper in her bad books. Still, I wasn’t prepared to change my mind.

After Eldred had gone, it struck me that the plotters had overlooked a far easier target. The south-eastern enclave was densely populated, whereas the trench lay unmanned and ripe for sabotage. Equipped with the correct tools, a dedicated team could inflict a lot of damage in a few hours, destroying what the cooks and I had taken days to create. It was a definite possibility, and when I remembered the missing spades I realized it could be happening at this very moment! Quickly I went out to investigate, padding noiselessly across the field in starlight until I arrived at the looming embankment. Fortunately, the trench appeared to have escaped the attention of Isabella and her accomplices: there was nobody else around.

I stopped and peered into the brooding silence of the north. A desultory breeze was blowing, and I could see the distant flicker of lights inside the scattered tents. Eldred had failed to inform me whether Hartopp or Brigant were privy to the planned raid, but anyway I felt unable to discuss the subject with either of them. Hen, meanwhile, was an unknown quantity. All I knew for sure was that the trench was vulnerable to attack, and as the evening passed I began to consider what safeguards could be put in place. Needless to say, these were few and far between. By the following morning I’d reached the conclusion that my only option was to mount irregular patrols along the trench (regular patrols would plainly attract interest and risked putting ideas into people’s heads).

So it was that I became a sort of unsung vigilante.

My first few forays were relatively easy: I simply waited until everyone was up and about, then I wandered slowly back and forth, pretending to search for the missing spades. At one point I met Brigant coming the other way, and asked him if he happened to have seen them during his travels. He said he hadn’t, but he promised to keep a lookout.

Later patrols required more circumspection. Clearly I couldn’t go over the same ground again and again, so in due course I discontinued the ‘search’ and reverted to taking casual strolls across the field. I soon learned that the trick was to affect an air of nonchalance and never look directly at anyone or anything in particular. Occasionally I drifted up to the very north, so that I could get an overall picture of developments as they unfolded. In truth, though, there was very little happening that could be counted as suspicious activity: despite simmering animosity towards the south-east, the field remained as quiet as ever.

On the other hand, it was inconceivable that Isabella would abandon her plans. Therefore, I knew it was only a question of time before she and her northern allies made their move.

This, when it finally came, was rather predictable. In the small hours of the next moonless night I was woken by a series of wild whoopings, followed by the martial tones of a bugle. Within minutes the whole encampment was in uproar. Apparently the raid was a success, but when daylight came there was precious little to show for it: a handful of buff-coloured tents lay collapsed or at crazy angles from having their guy ropes unfastened. That was all that had been achieved. The occupants soon got them straightened out; then they turned and gazed bemusedly at their distant neighbours. Shortly afterwards, Aldebaran appeared on the scene.

Retribution was equally swift. Later the same morning, while Isabella was bathing in the river, half a dozen men emerged from the encampment and headed for her crimson tent. I watched aghast as they set to work, flattening it completely and pulling out all the pegs. They actually showed considerable restraint (they could have done far worse); nevertheless, when Isabella returned she was furious. Also, she was quick to note that none of the other settlers had received similar treatment: she alone had been punished for the night’s exploits. Naturally, we all rushed over to help her get sorted out, but she was unforgiving.

‘Why didn’t anybody try and stop them?’ she demanded.

‘We were having breakfast,’ said Hartopp. ‘We didn’t notice.’

‘I was asleep,’ said Brigant.

‘I was looking west,’ said Hen.

‘Really?’ murmured Isabella. ‘How convenient.’ Lastly she turned to me. ‘And what’s your excuse?’

‘I haven’t got one,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

She gave me a long, meaningful stare before dismissing each and every one of us.

‘Off you go,’ she said. ‘I can fix all this on my own.’

‘Well, if you need any assistance,’ said Hartopp, ‘just let us know.’

Isabella made no response, and we all traipsed away in shamefaced silence.

The next day she arose early and went down to the south-west corner of the field, where she spent several hours cutting reeds and laying them in the sun to dry. I had an odd feeling about this, so eventually I walked across to say hello. Isabella saw me coming, but she ignored my approach and continued with her task.

‘I see you’ve been busy,’ I ventured.

‘Yes,’ she replied, avoiding my gaze.

I glanced at the lengths of cut reed which lay all around.

‘Not building a boat, are you?’

‘Yes, actually, I am,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘But you can’t leave,’ I said. ‘The place wouldn’t be the same without you.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Isabella. ‘I’ve decided to follow the sun.’

She ceased her labours and stood back to survey the situation. She’d accomplished a great deal in those few hours, and there were plenty enough reeds to make a boat.

‘I hope you’re not going because of me,’ I said.

‘Don’t flatter yourself!’ snapped Isabella, finally turning in my direction. ‘I was going anyway!’

‘Why?’

‘Because the field’s been spoilt,’ she said. ‘It’s lost its innocence.’

As if to underline her pronouncement, the blast of a bugle signalled noon. Previous orders, it seemed, had been revoked.

Isabella peered towards the south-east.

‘Bunch of ruffians,’ she remarked.

‘Not entirely,’ I said. ‘In some respects they’re quite a civilizing influence.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Marvellous organizational skills; iron discipline; proper plans and surveys; spacious thoroughfares; sophisticated drainage systems; monumental earthworks; communal kitchens and bakeries; bathhouses with hot water freely available. The list goes on and on.’

‘Well,’ said Isabella, ‘they may think they’re civilized, but they’re certainly not gentlemen.’