The Field of the Cloth of Gold

3

Far off in the north-east, beyond the outermost turn of the river, a flock of birds was wheeling in the sky. They were no larger than specks in the deep blue haze but, nevertheless, there appeared to be a purpose in their behaviour. They looked as if they were following the progress of some object moving slowly through the broad expanse beneath them. I studied the horizon but saw nothing. After a while one of the birds detached itself from its companions and flew due east. The others maintained their whirling vigil, and I wondered what could have enthralled them so much.

Later, during the afternoon, Hen came across to see me.

‘What do you make of those birds?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve been watching their antics all day and they’re slowly getting closer.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘All day?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t notice them.’

We stood in silence for a long time, gazing at the birds. I sensed, however, that Hen’s mind was on other matters.

‘By the way,’ he said at length, ‘Thomas agrees I was the first to settle in the west.’

‘Nice of him,’ I remarked. ‘Is that his name then? Thomas?’

‘Of course,’ said Hen. ‘I told you before.’

‘You mentioned him, yes,’ I said, ‘but he’s never come and introduced himself in person.’

Even as I spoke it struck me that I must have sounded very churlish. Here was Hen giving me some news which plainly meant a great deal to him, but my only response was to quibble about some detail. It seemed my resentment of the newcomer was yet to subside, and poor old Hen was on the receiving end. At the same time, I couldn’t help noting that his claim had been somewhat diluted from its original form: ‘first in the west’ was rather different from ‘first in the field’, and to my ears it was more of a concession than a victory.

I glanced quickly at Hen, realizing I’d probably offended him on several counts, but by now his attention was distracted.

‘Look!’ he cried, pointing to the north-east.

The birds we’d seen approaching had now reached the far corner of the field where the river made its turn. They’d worked themselves into a frenzy of squawking and flapping of wings, and a few seconds later we saw the cause of their ferment. Below them, drifting on the current, came a boat with a high, curved prow. Reclining in the stern was a lightly clad woman. She had no obvious means of propulsion, and was relying solely on the river to carry her along. When she saw the tents she steered towards the shallows; then she leapt out and dragged the boat into a stand of bulrushes; finally, she carried a number of bundles to the bank before stepping ashore.

Overhead, the birds continued whirling. She waved her arms and shouted at them to go away, but they ignored her. While all this went on, Hen and I had been watching transfixed. Now we debated going over to help.

‘I’m not sure she’ll need it,’ said Hen. ‘She looks very independent.’

‘We ought to offer,’ I said. ‘It’s the least we can do.’

The woman must have heard us talking because suddenly she peered in our direction. Next moment she was marching towards us, and as she drew near I heard Hen take a deep breath.

‘Where is everyone?’ she demanded. ‘I arrived especially early to reserve a place, but there’s nobody here!’

‘Apart from us,’ I said.

‘Obviously apart from you,’ she sighed, ‘but it’s not what I expected at all. I envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, flags flying, pennants fluttering and so forth.’

‘Must be a disappointment,’ I said.

‘Well, it is and it isn’t,’ she replied. ‘To be honest a bit of peace and quiet wouldn’t go amiss.’

She looked across at my tent, then at Hen’s, then lastly at Thomas’s. Its smooth white canopy was glimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

‘Whose is that?’ she asked.

‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Hen. ‘He’s not here at present.’

‘Ah, yes, Thomas,’ she said, as though the name stirred some remote memory.

Her eyes lingered on the octagonal tent.

‘And you are?’ Hen enquired.

‘Isabella,’ said the woman.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I am called Hen.’

She looked at him with interest. ‘That’s an unusual name.’

‘It’s colloquial,’ he said. ‘It means “someone who lives in the west”.’

‘How enchanting.’

She cast him an engaging smile, then turned to me inquisitively. At the same instant a flurry of movement caught my attention.

‘Watch out!’ I said. ‘Your boat’s getting away!’

We ran to the river bank. During Isabella’s brief absence the birds had descended on the boat and begun pecking at it ferociously. I could now see that it was fabricated entirely from reeds, which must have attracted them. In their excitement they’d managed to dislodge the vessel from its makeshift harbour, and it was drifting rapidly out of reach. All three of us plunged into the water, but it was too late: a swirling eddy seized hold of the boat and whisked it beyond our grasp. Very soon it was floating round the south-east bend of the river, pursued by a frantic whirr of wings.

To my surprise, Isabella was unperturbed by her loss.

‘Never mind,’ she said, once we’d regained dry land. ‘I can easily build another boat.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I suppose so.’

‘If things work out here, of course, I won’t need to.’

‘So you’re planning on staying?’ said Hen.

‘Certainly,’ said Isabella.

Her belongings lay nearby, and amongst them I could see a neatly folded tent. There was also an eiderdown (tied with silk cord), a tapestry (wrapped in ticking) and a collection of velvet cushions (loose). She stood for a long while taking in her new surroundings, a dreamy expression on her face.

‘Aren’t we fortunate,’ she said at last, ‘to have such a lovely meadow?’

‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘it’s properly known as the Great Field.’

The dreamy expression vanished.

‘I’m fully aware of that!’ she snapped.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘sorry.’

‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a tent to put up!’

‘You don’t need any help then?’

‘Correct.’

Without further comment, Hen and I made a swift withdrawal. When next we looked back, Isabella had already begun her task. She’d chosen a site at the extreme east of the field, close to the river. Evidently she’d done the job before: she tackled it with speed and efficiency, and seemed to be following a tried and tested routine; then, when everything was in place, she heaved on a slender rope and a beautiful crimson tent rose up from the ground. Within minutes, she had the whole structure securely pegged and guyed.

‘Most impressive,’ said Hen, as he set off for his own modest quarters.

Isabella’s work was far from complete. She now began installing her possessions, and this turned out to be a much slower process. She’d positioned the tent facing west, presumably to catch the sun going down, which meant that her doorway was plainly in my view. I lost count of the number of times she carried those precious items in and out while she decided what went where, and only after constant rearrangement was she eventually satisfied.

Darkness had not yet fallen when Isabella retired for the evening (doubtless in need of a rest after all her exertions). She failed, therefore, to witness Thomas returning across the river. I’d been wondering when he would next grace us with his presence and now, all of a sudden, here he was. I watched intrigued as he came ashore and caught sight of the crimson tent. It looked spectacular in the fiery rays of sunset, and even from a distance I could tell it aroused his interest. Normally, when he arrived back, he swept the field with an all-encompassing glance before switching his attention inward once more: in general he found nothing more engrossing than himself. The crimson tent, by contrast, held his gaze for several seconds. He stood stock still, swathed in his habitual white robes, and gave it a thorough appraisal; then, when presumably he’d seen enough, he continued on his way. A little later I noticed a lamp glowing faintly in the south-east, but it was soon extinguished as he, too, retired for the night.

The following morning was warm and sunny. A promising day lay ahead, and when I looked out I expected to see one or two early-risers making the most of it. Instead I saw nobody, not even Hen. I knew for sure he’d be roving around somewhere in the west, but for the time being he remained outside my line of vision. All I could see were the two faraway tents, one white and one crimson, both with their entrances fastened, and both silent.

An hour passed and the sun climbed higher in the sky, yet still nothing stirred. Personally, I found this incomprehensible: how anyone could sleep so late in the morning was quite beyond me. After a further ten minutes, however, there was movement at last. Isabella emerged from her tent, wrapped in a towel, and tiptoed across the grass to the river bank. She spent a while searching for a suitable spot where it wasn’t too steep; then she dropped her towel to the ground and slipped into the water. Effortlessly, she swam over to the other side, then back to where she started, then back over again. She repeated this exercise a few times before pausing in the shallows. The river rolled quietly on. Isabella lay motionless as the soft morning sunlight dappled the surface; then gradually the current took hold and she was borne downstream. She spread her arms languidly and offered no resistance. There was a bed of reeds at the water’s edge, and when she drifted past she must have brushed their stems with her fingertips; all their heads bowed and swayed in a series of gentle ripples. For a brief period she was lost from view behind these reeds, but eventually she reappeared and continued to glide slowly along. She was now approaching the south-east curve of the river and had almost drawn level with the shimmering white tent; at which moment its doorway parted and Thomas stepped out.

He glanced all around, and immediately his eyes alighted on Isabella’s recumbent figure. Naturally, under the circumstances, I expected him to show some discretion and pretend not to notice. Instead, I watched astounded as he strode casually to the river bank and engaged her in direct conversation. Obviously I was unable to hear what was being said, but seemingly Isabella was a willing participant in the exchange. She floated idly towards him as they passed the time of day together; then she gave a little laugh and began swimming upstream once more. Thomas strolled in parallel along the grassy bank, his white robes in full flow. When he spotted her discarded towel he picked it up and folded it carefully over his arm; then he stood at the water’s edge and waited. In due course Isabella rose from the shallows and he tossed the towel to her. The discussion resumed as she dried herself down. What exactly they found to talk about so soon in their acquaintanceship I didn’t know, but he detained her much longer than I would have thought necessary. For her part, Isabella made no attempt to get dressed. Instead she just stayed where she was with the towel wrapped tightly around her. Occasionally she placed her hands on her hips, rocked her head, and swished her hair from side to side, presumably hoping to dry it in the sun’s warm rays. Thomas was standing so close to her that the drops of water must have fallen on his bare feet, yet he showed no sign of having felt them. I carried on observing the pair’s behaviour for several minutes: it was a fascinating display from both parties, but their performance was about to be interrupted.