Magnus Mills - The Field of the Cloth of Gold

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.