The Field of the Cloth of Gold

4

Suddenly a sail appeared coming downriver. Isabella took one look at it and vanished inside her tent. Meanwhile, Thomas stared at the approaching boat. A moment later it ran against the bank and a man jumped ashore with a painter in his hand. He held it secure as the boat swung round with the current. Then two other men dropped the sail. They had landed in the extreme north-east corner of the field, and they paused briefly to take stock of their surroundings. I was quite some way away, but even at this distance I could tell they were only making a tentative appraisal. They were gazing over the field and speaking quietly among themselves. All three of them seemed most unassuming. Whether they were planning to stay or merely breaking their journey was unclear, yet a swish of white robes told me that someone had decided to intervene. Thomas went striding along the bank just as the other two men gained dry land; there then followed a rather one-sided exchange during which he addressed them loudly and pointed in various directions, including back up the river to where they’d come from.

The three men stood in a group, facing him but apparently saying little. They had a certain stillness about them which I found admirable, and I was pleased to see that they were standing firm. When Thomas had finished berating them they simply shrugged and remained where they were; then he turned and marched away towards the south-east. When he passed the crimson tent he didn’t even glance at it: evidently he’d forgotten about Isabella for the time being.

After a brief conference, the three men dragged their boat onto the grass and began unloading various pieces of baggage and equipment. These included a large tent which they proceeded to erect close by the river. I decided to go and say hello. They looked at me warily as I approached, but I reassured them with a smile and a handshake. The first man was called Hartopp, and he was accompanied by his two sons. I liked them all from the start: I thought they had the bearing of unadorned noblemen.

‘I gather you’ve already met Thomas,’ I remarked.

‘The fellow in the white robes?’ said Hartopp.

‘Yes.’

‘He didn’t introduce himself,’ said the younger son, ‘but he spoke to us very haughtily.’

‘Made us feel most unwelcome,’ added Hartopp.

‘That comes as no surprise,’ I said.

‘Thinks he owns the place, does he?’

Clearly Thomas had upset the three of them, but they rose above the slight with dignity and continued pitching their tent. This was a substantial structure: it comprised multiple curves, planes and angles, and appeared to have been designed by an engineer. According to Hartopp it was more than just weatherproof: it was completely storm resistant. He was visibly proud of its innovations, which included an extended awning and a set of pulley blocks for adjusting the guy ropes from within the tent. I was given a concise tour of the interior; then Hartopp opened a trunk and produced a square container made from tin.

‘Like a biscuit?’ he asked.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘yes, please.’

He removed the lid and revealed a stash of plain biscuits. We took one each, then went and stood under the awning. My biscuit, I noticed, was imprinted with some numerals.

‘It’s the date it was baked,’ said Hartopp. ‘Two years and eleven months ago, to be precise.’

‘Very nice,’ I said, munching it slowly. ‘Tastes quite fresh.’

‘Actually,’ he explained, ‘the word “biscuit” means “twice baked”.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘The process makes them hard but light, easy to preserve and excellent for sustenance.’

‘I see.’

‘Which is why biscuits are vital when travelling.’

‘Come a long way then, have you?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hartopp. ‘A long, long way.’

While we’d been talking, Isabella had emerged from her tent (fully clothed) and was now pottering around on the river bank. Every now and then she glanced in our direction.

‘Do you know Isabella?’ I enquired.

‘No,’ said Hartopp, ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘She only arrived yesterday,’ I said. ‘I thought you might have seen her during your journey.’

‘Our paths were unlikely to cross,’ he replied. ‘The river has many tributaries.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I never realized.’

At these words Hartopp turned to me. ‘You’re not from the north-east then?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m not from the north at all.’

He absorbed this information thoughtfully but said nothing more on the subject. His sons, in the meantime, had finished unloading their boat. It was a sturdy vessel with a rounded hull and looked as if it was built to last. They hoisted the sail again so it could dry properly in the sun before being folded away; then they turned and stood peering upriver.

‘Expecting somebody?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Hartopp, ‘we have some friends coming, but they seem to have fallen behind.’

Isabella was now standing perfectly still on the bank and gazing into the north-east. Although she was further downstream, she had a better view of the river because of the way it curved. I could tell she’d seen something approaching and, sure enough, a minute later two more boats came in sight. Their crews waved when they saw us. They drew up to the shore and dropped their sails in the same orderly manner as when Hartopp had arrived; then we all manhandled the boats onto dry land. Isabella refrained this time from repeating her dramatic exit; instead, she quietly observed the scene from where she was. Beyond her, in the distant south-east, somebody else was also watching.

The new arrivals (half a dozen in all) were similar in disposition to Hartopp and his sons: they were friendly, courteous and diligent. Their tents, like his, were angular and extensive, and I sensed Hartopp had a proprietorial interest in each of them. Quickly and efficiently they set up camp nearby; when the work was complete they sat down and shared biscuits with one another.

There was a single exception amongst Hartopp’s adherents. A man called Brigant had travelled as a passenger in the third boat, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t a natural sailor. He staggered ashore looking rather green in the face and headed directly for the middle of the field, as far from the river as possible. He pitched his tent in isolation, then disappeared into its dark confines: we didn’t see him again for several days.

The biscuit tin, meanwhile, served as the key to diplomacy. The next morning, Isabella swam and bathed once more in the lower reaches of the river. Again she was intercepted by Thomas, and again he accompanied her along the bank when she returned upstream. He retrieved her towel and they went through the same ritual as before; then the pair of them stood together talking in the sunshine. All this was witnessed by Hartopp and his companions, but to their credit they paid no attention whatsoever: they simply turned their backs until Thomas had gone. At midday, however, as Isabella reposed in the shade of her tent, she was visited by Hartopp’s younger son. He took with him an invitation: would she care to come as a guest of the newcomers and join them for biscuits and fruit cordial? In due course Hen and I also received invitations, but Thomas notably didn’t.

It was late in the afternoon when I strolled over to the north-east. I went alone. Hen had politely declined the invitation, just as I knew he would, and remained ensconced in his spartan headquarters. When my hosts asked after him I assured them that he wasn’t being unsociable; merely that he seldom strayed from the west these days. Their response was magnanimous.

‘Never mind,’ said Hartopp. ‘We’ll send him some biscuits as a gesture of our goodwill.’

Half an hour went by while we waited for Isabella, who eventually arrived looking fabulous in crimson. Despite showing up much later than specified, she was treated like minor royalty and given a conducted tour of the new settlement. Afterwards, we all assembled beneath Hartopp’s awning. Isabella was fulsome in her praise of the angular tents.

‘Very tasteful,’ she said. ‘Such neat, clean lines; highly refined; absolutely no fuss or clutter.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hartopp. ‘Obviously they’re only experimental. Tent design is in constant development.’

‘I think you’re a bit of a perfectionist,’ she remarked.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘when it comes to tents I suppose I am.’

‘Do they require much upkeep?’ I asked.

‘Ceaseless,’ he affirmed.

Immediately, he began making adjustments to one of the guy ropes. We watched him carefully tighten it, then slacken it a little, then tighten it again. Finally, when he was satisfied with the tension, he came and rejoined us.

‘Maintenance,’ he said, ‘is essential.’

‘Oh, I’m hopeless at all that,’ said Isabella. ‘My tent’s riddled with imperfection.’

‘Looks alright to me,’ I said.

‘You’ve only seen it from faraway,’ she replied. ‘Actually it’s a mass of sags and bulges.’

Hartopp furrowed his brow.

‘Are your guys equidistant?’ he asked.

‘More or less,’ said Isabella.

‘It’s fairly important,’ he said. ‘A small modification can make all the difference.’

‘Really?’

‘If you like, I can come and see to it for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely. Yes, we really must arrange it sometime.’

‘Tomorrow?’ suggested Hartopp.

Isabella took a moment to consider her answer.

‘Probably not just yet,’ she said, casting him a winning smile.

The sun was beginning to go down. Biscuits and cordial were served. As the guests mingled, I gazed around the little encampment. Over by the river bank, I noticed, the three boats had been upturned and were resting on wooden blocks. Something told me they’d be there for quite a while.