The Field of the Cloth of Gold

15

‘Since when has it been called Thomas’s Crossing?’ asked Brigant.

‘The title’s fairly recent,’ I replied.

Brigant absorbed the information with an indignant grunt.

‘Is there no limit to the man’s vanity?’ he enquired.

‘Probably not,’ I said.

I’d called in on Brigant on my way back to the north-west, and as usual we’d exchanged the latest gossip. I liked visiting Brigant because he could always be relied upon to make some disparaging comment about Thomas, a fact which I found most gratifying. Today, though, his primary interest lay elsewhere.

‘This Yadegarian,’ he said. ‘The fellow they’re all talking about.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Friend of yours, isn’t he?’

‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘We worked alongside one another for a while.’

‘When you were building the turf wall?’

‘Correct.’

Brigant regarded me for a few moments, then turned and peered at the ruined earthwork.

‘You know, it’ll never disappear,’ he said. ‘Not entirely.’

‘No,’ I answered, ‘I don’t expect it will.’

‘There’ll always be traces.’

‘Yes.’

Although he would hardly admit it, I sensed that Brigant was quite pleased with this outcome. Hitherto, the turf wall had provided unarguable evidence for his concept of a divided field; moreover, it gave him a perfect excuse to rail against the iniquities of the south. If the wall had vanished completely, he would have had far less to complain about.

‘Looks as if we’re in for more rain,’ he said, glancing at the sky. ‘Perhaps not this afternoon, but definitely later, and there’s going to be a lot of it.’

I left him adding yet another flysheet to his tent, and headed home. All across the field, people were battening down for the deluge which Brigant had predicted. There would be no need for a curfew tonight: as soon as dusk approached, everyone retired to their quarters and waited. The rain finally arrived around midnight, and it was much heavier than any of the previous downpours I’d witnessed. For hour after hour I listened to it hammering relentlessly on my roof, and it was still falling when daylight came.

Peering out through my doorway, I saw at once that disaster had struck. The river was flowing in a muddy torrent and had broken its banks in several places. Wherever I looked I could see sodden ground and tents awash. Conditions were especially bad in the populous south-east, where small rivulets criss-crossed the field and caused extensive flooding. Meanwhile, down in the far south-west, Yadegarian’s circle of tents had been completely flattened. Hurriedly I put on my boots and went to offer some help.

When I reached Yadegarian’s encampment I heard some disturbing news. It turned out that at the height of the storm they’d suffered a raid.

‘The copper bath’s been stolen,’ said Yadegarian, simmering with anger.

He showed me a trail in the mud where the bath had been dragged eastward.

‘Who was it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t see the intruders, but someone said it was men in iron helmets.’

When we examined the tents we made a further discovery.

‘It wasn’t the storm that flattened them,’ I said. ‘These have been let down on purpose.’

As the rain continued falling, Yadegarian’s people struggled to repair the damage. Obviously there’d been a deliberate attempt to dislodge them from their camp, and I suggested it might be wise to make a quiet and dignified departure.

‘Don’t be a fool!’ snapped Yadegarian. ‘If we leave the field now, it means they’ve won!’

‘But what if they come back?’ I asked.

‘We’ll worry about that when it happens!’

Yadegarian was in defiant mood, so I gave up arguing with him. Instead, we followed the trail of mud to see where it led. Unfortunately, it soon merged into the general mud surrounding the city of tents. The entire region was in chaos, and there was no indication of where the copper bath may have been taken. Yadegarian gazed at the turmoil with disdain, then marched back to assist his comrades. He declined my offer to go with him.

These days I was a comparative stranger in the south-east, so I roamed around unobserved, helping out where I could. Very soon I spotted Thomas and Isabella, who were part of a human chain conveying supplies and equipment to the worst-stricken areas. It was admirable work, and they were plainly keen to demonstrate that they were enduring the same hardship as their neighbours. I noticed, however, that the shimmering white tent remained wholly unscathed by the storm. Perhaps the stolen bath was hidden inside; perhaps not. Either way, my suspicions of the men with the iron helmets had been confirmed. The move against Yadegarian had shown just what they were capable of, and with some concern I wondered where they would turn next.

In the meantime, a huge question mark hung over Hippo. He’d played a dominant part in recent events and doubtless saw the seizure of the copper bath as a triumph. Even so, the floods had proved that he was not infallible. There was no sign of him amongst the bedraggled crowd, and I assumed he was keeping a low profile until the waters subsided. This was a wise precaution. It was Hippo, after all, who’d brought about the calamity by demanding the destruction of the turf wall. Thanks to him, an effective drainage scheme had been rendered useless, and now the consequences were there for all to see.

Oddly enough, though, the common view seemed to be quite different. As I wandered amid the debris, I began to overhear conversations about life in the early days of the Great Field. People said it was a haven of peace and tranquillity, where the grass grew in abundance, the sun shone brightly, and misfortune was unheard of. Others attested that they’d never witnessed flooding, or any other kind of catastrophe. (The majority of these claims, it should be mentioned, were made by newcomers who didn’t know any better.) Soon I heard murmurings that everything had changed with the advent of the turf wall. Not only had it divided the field into opposing halves, but it had also interfered with the natural flow of rainwater. Suddenly, the floods had become a regular occurrence. The turf wall, they concluded, was the cause of all their problems; and gradually the murmurings transformed into a clamour. Hadn’t Hippo warned them? And hadn’t they failed him abjectly? Oh, they’d tried their best to rid themselves of the turf wall, but the men who built it had been much too clever! The wall remained barely half-destroyed, running across the field like a scar that would never fade away! Now they were stuck with it for ever, but at least they knew who the culprits were!

As the people’s wrath fomented all around me, I decided I’d better make myself scarce. With this in mind, I sauntered casually away from the milling throng.

‘Just a minute,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

I looked over my shoulder and saw a man approaching. He was wearing an iron helmet. I proceeded slowly for a few more paces, then stopped and allowed him to catch up.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘My tent’s over in the north-west,’ I replied. ‘I’m just heading back to see if it’s alright.’

‘But there’s work to do here,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s supposed to help clear up the mess.’

He was a large man, with an outwardly menacing appearance, but he wasn’t being particularly unfriendly. Actually, his manner was reassuringly earnest.

‘I’d like to lend a hand,’ I said, ‘but it’s pandemonium at present.’

The man peered at the enraged mob which was seething and swirling barely a stone’s throw away.

‘Yes, they’re all rather upset,’ he remarked. ‘Still, they’ll soon settle down now they’ve found someone to blame.’

‘You mean for building the turf wall?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It was Yadegarian, wasn’t it?’

Even as we watched, a cry went up and the crowd started surging away towards the south-west. The man in the iron helmet looked at me enquiringly, and all at once I realized I hadn’t answered his question.

‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘That’s more or less the truth.’