The Field of the Cloth of Gold (6 page)

Instead, the voice murmured a weak, ‘Thank you.’

The three of us waited. From inside the tent there came a further series of groans, faint cursing and exasperated puffing; then, at last, Brigant’s gaunt head appeared in the entrance.

‘Morning,’ he said, to nobody in particular.

‘Afternoon actually,’ said Isabella.

She was dressed as usual in dazzling crimson, but Brigant seemed unmoved by her splendour.

‘I stand corrected,’ he said, before emerging fully into the daylight.

‘Well,’ said Hartopp cheerily. ‘Glad to see you out and about.’

He presented Brigant with a tin of biscuits and assured him there were plenty more where they came from.

‘Let me know when you need replenishing,’ he added.

Brigant was evidently overwhelmed by this act of generosity. He stared speechlessly at the offering while Hartopp went and fussed around the tent, tightening the guy lines and so forth. There was little to adjust, in fact, but the work kept Hartopp busy for a few minutes.

‘That’s better,’ he announced finally.

‘Thank you,’ uttered Brigant for a second time.

Hartopp smiled, and said he’d better be getting back to the north-east.

After he’d gone, Brigant peered doubtfully at his biscuits.

‘Many more of these,’ he said at length, ‘and I’ll go down with scurvy.’

‘Oh,’ I said, with surprise, ‘I think they’re quite nice.’

‘Maybe they are,’ said Brigant, ‘but you probably haven’t had to live on them for the past year and a half.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Still,’ said Isabella, ‘it was kind of Hartopp to bring them over.’

‘Yes, if you say so,’ conceded Brigant in a weary tone. He put his hand to his brow and closed his eyes for several long moments, then he opened them again and focused properly on Isabella.

‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘Isabella.’

‘I’m Brigant.’

‘Yes, so we heard,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ said Brigant.

He gave me a nod, then turned and peered at the elegant white tent that shimmered in the distance.

‘Alright for some,’ he remarked. ‘Very posh.’

‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Isabella.

‘Is that Thomas the Proud?’

‘Just Thomas,’ she said, ‘as far as I know.’

I was beginning to warm towards Brigant, in spite of his rather blunt manner. He looked across to the west, where Hen was busily engaged in some task or other.

‘Who’s that fellow?’ he enquired.

‘His name’s Hen,’ I said. ‘He was here first.’

‘Really?’ said Isabella. ‘I thought Thomas was.’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Not in so many words,’ she said, ‘but I always assumed he was here before anyone else.’

‘That’s debatable,’ I replied. ‘In any case, Hen was the first to settle so he has the prior claim.’

‘But . . .’

Isabella got no further because she was suddenly interrupted by Brigant.

‘Does any of this really matter?’ he snapped. ‘After all, it’s only a blasted field we’re talking about!’

I glanced at Brigant with astonishment. Plainly he didn’t share my idealistic vision of the field: a place chosen especially to fulfil its purpose; a place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition. In Brigant’s view it was merely a ‘blasted field’. During the silence which followed his outburst I wondered if his judgement was possibly correct, and if maybe I’d been deceiving myself from the very start. When I considered the question in any depth, I realized that nothing of significance had happened in all those weeks since my arrival. There’d just been sunshine, rain, and more sunshine, accompanied by a slow trickle of newcomers. The facts were irrefutable: the sparse population was barely enough to put us on the map, let alone stir up great events.

Isabella’s expectations had similarly failed to transpire. She’d envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft. It was a vivid picture, and I could easily imagine the scene she’d painted, but as yet it had come to little.

Nevertheless, she remained optimistic.

‘Well, whoever was here first,’ she said, ‘I think we’re all fortunate to have such a lovely meadow.’

Her words seemed to smooth Brigant’s ruffles.

‘I suppose it’ll do,’ he said at length.

Brigant may not have been impressed by his new surroundings, but there was one feature that definitely caught his interest.

‘I see we’ve got a bit of a slope,’ he observed.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly anything really. Almost imperceptible.’

‘A slope’s still a slope,’ said Brigant.

He looked up the field towards the wilderness in the north, then turned again and gazed south.

‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Always a good test, a slope is.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant by this remark. Over the next few days, however, he gradually expanded on the subject. In conversation, he began making reference to the ‘lower field’ and the ‘upper field’, as though the Great Field was somehow divided into two halves. The slope, apparently, was an integral part of this division. Any land that lay to Brigant’s south was the lower field, while the upper field was the land that lay to his north. The line between the two halves was completely arbitrary, of course, yet Brigant persisted in distinguishing one from the other. Furthermore, I noted that he tended always to favour the north. He could often be seen strolling around in the upper field, as he called it, but he seldom ventured southward.

Consequently, I was surprised when early one morning I heard Brigant’s voice outside my tent.

‘Are you awake?’ he asked quietly.

‘Only just,’ I said. ‘What are you doing up and about at this hour?’

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he replied.

‘That makes a change.’

‘Can you come out here please?’

I detected a sense of urgency in his tone, so quickly I put on my boots and went outside.

Brigant was peering towards the river.

‘What do you make of those characters?’ he said.

Over on the other bank were three tents, buff-coloured and conical in shape, with white pennants fluttering from their peaks. Standing beside these tents was a small group of men. They were all clad in identical buff tunics, and all looking in our direction.

‘Not sure what to make of them,’ I said. ‘Any idea how long they’ve been there?’

‘No,’ said Brigant. ‘I didn’t see them arrive.’

‘They seem to be sizing us up.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

A movement in the south-east caught my eye. Thomas appeared in the doorway of his tent, and he soon noticed the men on the opposite bank. I expected him instantly to go marching towards them, just as he had when Hartopp and his companions first landed. Instead, though, he stayed where he was, observing the newcomers but, for the time being, doing nothing.

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.