The Field of the Cloth of Gold

5

The following morning I awoke early. I gazed out at the tents ranged far and wide across the field: all around me was spaciousness, peace and tranquillity. Another warm day lay ahead, so I decided to take a walk by the river while it was still relatively cool. This necessarily involved a detour away from the south-east: in spite of recent events my stand-off with Thomas remained unresolved, and I continued to avoid him at all costs. My plan, therefore, was to aim for the extreme south of the field before heading due west. When I neared the water’s edge, however, I changed my mind. The lack of rainfall had started to affect the level of the river, and it was especially shallow at the southernmost point. All of a sudden I was taken with the notion of wading over to the other side: it would be interesting, I thought, to see the field from an entirely different angle, and a change of scenery would do me good. I wasn’t one of those people who roamed about barefoot, so I removed my boots and carried them with me. The going was easy, and I was soon at the opposite bank. Some footprints in the sand told me this was the spot where Thomas regularly came ashore; today, for the first time, I added some prints of my own. It was beginning to evolve into a proper crossing.

Once I’d reached dry land I turned and looked back at the field. Immediately I was struck by the preponderance of the shimmering white tent; in comparison, my own tent appeared tiny and insignificant, and so did Hen’s, while the new tents in the north-east were barely visible through the early-morning haze. Seemingly, Thomas had chosen his ground well. It gave him full command of the river (as well as the best views) and the implication was clear: anyone approaching from the south was bound to assume Thomas was more important than the rest of us. No wonder he strutted around as if he owned the place; indeed, I would hardly have been surprised if he’d demanded tithes from we lower mortals, or maybe levied a toll for using the crossing. As a matter of fact, I suspected Hen was already in Thomas’s thrall. The way he’d continually amended his claim to be first in the field suggested they’d come to some kind of feudal agreement. Obviously this was only conjecture on my part, but there was plenty of evidence to support the theory. Whenever he mentioned Thomas’s name, for instance, Hen sounded as though he was doffing an imaginary cap. Moreover, he rarely paid visits to the north, the east or the south. In effect, Hen was confined to his western outpost. There were, however, two sides to this particular coin. During the past few weeks I’d never seen Thomas venturing very far into the west: whenever he wandered in that direction he always stopped well short of the margins. Thomas was apparently keeping to his half of the bargain. In consequence, Hen was free to enjoy a solitary existence, which was what he actually preferred. Maybe he was more astute than I thought.

I pondered all this as I continued to roam through the neighbouring lands. I drifted eastward and Isabella’s crimson tent came into view. The sun was up, but it was not yet the hour for her daily swim and there was no sign of movement. (Brigant’s tent, meanwhile, lay silent and still.)

By now I was starting to feel an odd sense of detachment. I was only separated from the Great Field by the width of the river, but already I felt disconnected from Hen, Isabella and the others. I realized that the field was where I truly belonged, and all at once I was overcome by an urge to go back. I turned and headed for the crossing, which was when I spotted Thomas advancing towards the far side. He was strolling down the river bank in his usual unhurried manner. I had no idea if he’d seen me or not, but it was too late to change my mind now. I entered the water at the same moment as he did, and waded into the shallows. As we got nearer to one another it occurred to me how different we were: I was carrying a pair of boots in my hand and he was wearing flowing white robes. Also, he was bearded whereas I wasn’t. We had nothing in common except that we both dwelt in the same field. For some reason he thought he was superior to everybody else, and I expected at least a reprimand for using the crossing without his permission. I was surprised, therefore, when we passed each other and merely exchanged nods. Not a word was spoken, and I was rather nonplussed by the encounter. Whether he’d given me a nod of greeting, acknowledgement or plain condescension remained unclear, but by the time I reached the bank I’d decided it scarcely mattered. I watched Thomas as he retreated slowly and purposefully into the distant south. It was obvious that neither of us were likely to alter our ways in the near future; accordingly, our exchanged nods represented a sort of unspoken accommodation between us. They were nods of mutual acceptance, which was fine by me.

I had to admit this change of perspective was most welcome; in fact, as the morning unfurled I began to feel somewhat uplifted. Presently, Isabella emerged and went bathing in the river uninterrupted. She swam a long way beyond the shimmering white tent, giving it hardly a second glance as she passed it by; afterwards she returned to the shore and spent the rest of the day sunning herself.

During the afternoon I wandered over to see Hartopp. Although they were newcomers to the field, he and his followers seemed to have blended in quite readily. Nothing was too much trouble in the way of hospitality, and they were never-failing in their helpfulness. Hartopp was still awaiting the call to iron out Isabella’s imperfections, but as yet it hadn’t come. Instead he immersed himself in the study of tents. All problems of design, structure and function, he explained, could be solved on scientific principles.

Meanwhile, his two sons went in search of Isabella’s missing boat. The previous evening I’d recounted the events surrounding her arrival, and they’d been intrigued by my description of the errant vessel. Now they were forming a search party. Perhaps, they suggested, the boat had become lodged amongst the reeds at the far south-west turn of the river (they even considered recruiting Hen as a local guide, but then decided they could manage unassisted). I thought the plan was doomed to failure from the start: wherever the boat came to rest, it was sure to have been pecked to pieces by the birds. Nonetheless, the brothers set off eagerly to seek their trophy. Presumably, they hoped to win Isabella’s favour when they brought it back in triumph. Disappointment, however, stood in their way. After hours spent scouring the reed beds, they returned empty-handed.

Following this brief swirl of activity, life continued at its former sedate pace. Thomas finally reappeared and resumed his stately residence in the south-east; and once again he set his sights on Isabella. For several successive mornings he joined her at the riverside, carrying her towel and playing the humble attendant. I had to confess I admired his persistence: without question it was a gallant effort, yet she wasn’t fooled for a moment. Not Isabella. She may have dried herself in public, but she always dressed in private. Thomas’s repeated overtures were getting him nowhere, and ultimately his interest began to wane. As Hartopp could have told him, Isabella was more or less unreachable.

Despite these minor let-downs, there was no real cause for complaint. In truth, we lacked for nothing. Each of us possessed the tent of our choice; we enjoyed luxurious seclusion; and the weather was warm and sunny. We were a handful of settlers scattered far and wide beneath the broad, blue sky. All around us was peace and tranquillity and, as the summer rolled on, a sense of timelessness descended over the field.