Magnus Mills - The Field of the Cloth of Gold

By now, the sun had fully risen. All across the field we could hear the sounds of another day beginning, and in due course Thomas emerged from the shimmering white tent. He was followed soon afterwards by Isabella.

‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Hen.

Evidently he’d been unaware of Isabella’s presence, and I had to admit it was odd that she’d kept such a low profile since returning. After all, she was hardly a shrinking violet. Suddenly, though, the answer occurred to me: she’d been waiting to be reunited with her personal effects. Not until the eiderdown, the tapestry and the velvet cushions were installed in their proper place would she be satisfied. I was coming to realize that what mattered most to Isabella was the inner tent, rather than the outer trappings.

Considering she’d only just moved in with him, Thomas was paying her remarkably little attention. He stood with his back to Isabella, gazing around the field in his customary manner, and eventually his eyes alighted on the embankment. Next moment, he went strolling over to inspect it more closely. I watched intrigued as he walked its length from east to west, casting critical glances here and there, and appraising the earthwork in general. By now it had begun to blend in fully with its surroundings: it was grassing over nicely, and I was proud of the part I’d played in its construction. Accordingly, the sight of Thomas taking a proprietorial interest annoyed me no end. True enough, he was the main beneficiary of the drainage scheme; yet surely all the organization, the hard graft, the misunderstandings and the disagreements weren’t just so that he could swan around without getting his feet wet!

What the newcomers made of their enrobed and bearded host was anybody’s guess. They were plainly here at Thomas’s invitation, but they looked a formidable bunch, and somehow I couldn’t picture them going barefoot through the pasture (heavy boots were much more likely). The exact purpose of their visit was far from clear, and as I gazed at their circle of tents I wondered how long they proposed to stay. There’d been no sign of them in the morning, so I assumed they were still resting after their arduous journey. Doubtless they’d surface sooner or later.

Over on the other side of the embankment, it was business as usual. Random shouts and yells signalled that Hogust’s people were up and about and causing mayhem. Already I’d seen a few sails being hoisted on the river bank, only to be subsequently lowered again. This was typical of the way they lived. From what I’d observed, they were restive people who hadn’t really got enough to do; therefore, they spent their time making a nuisance of themselves. Poor Hartopp acted as a sort of buffer zone, and to some extent he was a calming influence. Nonetheless, sooner or later they were bound to break out of the north-east and head southward: the temptation of the lush, open grassland was simply far too great.

Of course, there was one thing the northerners all had in common. Without exception, they viewed the earthwork as a defensive rampart. They saw it as a barrier between the upper and lower field, and the idea of creating an opening had already been mooted. I was unsure whether such a plan would improve relations or simply cause hostilities, especially in the light of recent developments, but I decided I should at least find out if any progress was being made. The last time I saw Hartopp and Hogust they’d been discussing the project in earnest, so with some urgency I set off for the north-east.

Halfway there I encountered Brigant. He’d seemingly put an end to his period of self-imposed confinement and was about to rejoin society. I didn’t need to ask how he was feeling. His opening remark was both caustic and spiky: ample proof that he’d made a full recovery.

‘He’s come back then,’ he said, ‘our fairweather friend.’

‘You mean Thomas?’ I replied. ‘Yes, it’s been a couple of days now.’

‘Never see him when it’s raining, do we?’ Brigant continued.

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Nor when there’s a howling gale.’

‘No.’

‘Like I said: fairweather friend.’

Obviously Brigant had lost touch with current affairs while he was laid up. His store of gossip was totally out of date, and he was due for a bit of a shock next time he peered into the south. I didn’t say anything though: he’d find out for himself soon enough.

When I reached the north-east, I was pleased to discover that plans for breaching the embankment had been shelved. Hartopp and Hogust remained on cordial terms with one another, but they’d failed to agree who would be in charge of the operation. Actually, Hartopp had enough on his plate dealing with Hollis and Eldred. They pestered him unceasingly to let them take the boats so they could ply the river in search of adventure. So far he’d resisted their demands, but he wasn’t sure if he could hold out much longer.

‘They think life under sail is all fun and games,’ he said. ‘They’ve forgotten the hard slog when you have to come back upstream.’

Hogust, meanwhile, had made a further offer for Hartopp’s vessels. Apparently he now wanted all three.

‘Why’s he so eager to get hold of them?’ I enquired.

‘Because his longboats are all worn out,’ replied Hartopp. ‘He’s been sailing them for years.’

‘What’s on the table? Straight swap?’

‘Yep.’

‘But the answer’s still “no”.’

‘Correct,’ said Hartopp. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘Quite.’

‘In any case, I need workhorses not jollyboats.’

He gave a weary sigh. Evidently he had much to contend with, and the strain was beginning to show. Apart from his worries over Hollis and Eldred, he was obliged to keep a constant watch over his turbulent neighbours. Thanks to Hogust and his crew, the entire north-east had drifted into a state of ferment. Hartopp was under pressure from all directions, and for this reason his decision to stand firm was all the more admirable.

‘Oh, by the way,’ he remarked, ‘I noticed some new tents appeared overnight.’

‘Actually they arrived late yesterday afternoon,’ I said. ‘Around dusk.’

I didn’t mean to sound as if I was correcting Hartopp, but regrettably that was how it came out.

‘Alright,’ he said, in a flat tone of voice. ‘Dusk then. It hardly makes any difference, does it?’

‘It made a difference to Isabella,’ I announced. ‘They kept her waiting for hours.’

When he heard Isabella’s name, Hartopp’s eyes widened.

‘She’s back then?’ he murmured.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Well, why didn’t you mention it before?’

Now he had that betrayed look on his face again, and I realized I needed to choose my words even more carefully. At the back of my mind there also lurked Isabella’s injunction, forbidding me from discussing her private affairs. I’d already gone too far, if the truth be told, but I didn’t want to make matters any worse.

‘I couldn’t really,’ I said. ‘Not under the circumstances.’

Hartopp regarded me for a long moment, then turned and peered southward.

‘Where’s her crimson tent?’ he asked. ‘I can’t see it.’

Again I was unable to answer.

Down in the south-east, a few of the newcomers were roaming around near the river bank. They moved slowly and purposefully, and had an air of quiet authority about them. Further away, at the very turn of the river, stood Thomas. He was talking to two of the men (they looked like the two he’d shaken hands with the previous day) and the discussion continued for some time. Meanwhile, Isabella emerged from the shimmering white tent and began a series of bending and stretching exercises.

Hartopp turned to face me. He’d gone rather pale.