The Field of the Cloth of Gold

6

It was Brigant, of all people, who alerted us to the intruders. I say ‘of all people’ because he was the last person I’d have expected to raise the alarm. Generally he minded his own business and kept matters very much to himself. He was the type who noticed a lot but said little in the way of comment. Moreover, he wasn’t usually to be found roaming about at the crack of dawn, which was when the advance party made its appearance.

Brigant had taken a while to adapt to his new circumstances. In the days following his undignified arrival he’d remained hidden inside his tent, lost entirely to the world at large and displaying no obvious sign of life. I soon decided that he must be a recluse by choice, but Hartopp had different ideas. He felt responsible for the welfare of his passengers, and gradually Brigant’s prolonged torpor became a cause for grave concern. Apparently, his recent history was rather discouraging.

‘Brigant was never a good traveller,’ Hartopp explained. ‘We had to stop the boats on countless occasions during our voyage.’

Hartopp, Isabella and I debated what we should do. In my opinion it was best simply to leave Brigant alone until he’d made a proper recovery, but I was overruled by Isabella.

‘We can’t just leave him,’ she said. ‘He looked very peaky when he landed, and he might be even worse now.’

So it was that I found myself in a small deputation heading for Brigant’s tent. It stood in the middle of the field and, by default, I was his nearest neighbour (hence my involvement). The tent was an unglamorous affair: a ridge tent, with a wooden knob at the top of each pole. Its canvas walls flapped limply in the wind as we approached. We paused and listened, but heard no sound; then Hartopp spoke quietly.

‘Brigant?’

His enquiry brought no response.

‘Brigant?’

Again nothing.

‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ I said.

‘Perhaps,’ answered Hartopp. ‘Even so, it’s a bit worrying.’

‘I really think we should have come sooner,’ said Isabella.

We watched as she leaned in close to the tent.

‘Brigant?’ she called softly. ‘Brigant?’

There was a low groan from within, then a hoarse voice demanded, ‘What’s all the noise?’

‘Oh, hello, Brigant,’ said Hartopp. ‘We’re just seeing if you’re alright.’

‘I’ll survive,’ came the reply.

‘We’ve brought you some biscuits.’

I thought I heard the onset of a second groan, but it was quickly suppressed.

Instead, the voice murmured a weak, ‘Thank you.’

The three of us waited. From inside the tent there came a further series of groans, faint cursing and exasperated puffing; then, at last, Brigant’s gaunt head appeared in the entrance.

‘Morning,’ he said, to nobody in particular.

‘Afternoon actually,’ said Isabella.

She was dressed as usual in dazzling crimson, but Brigant seemed unmoved by her splendour.

‘I stand corrected,’ he said, before emerging fully into the daylight.

‘Well,’ said Hartopp cheerily. ‘Glad to see you out and about.’

He presented Brigant with a tin of biscuits and assured him there were plenty more where they came from.

‘Let me know when you need replenishing,’ he added.

Brigant was evidently overwhelmed by this act of generosity. He stared speechlessly at the offering while Hartopp went and fussed around the tent, tightening the guy lines and so forth. There was little to adjust, in fact, but the work kept Hartopp busy for a few minutes.

‘That’s better,’ he announced finally.

‘Thank you,’ uttered Brigant for a second time.

Hartopp smiled, and said he’d better be getting back to the north-east.

After he’d gone, Brigant peered doubtfully at his biscuits.

‘Many more of these,’ he said at length, ‘and I’ll go down with scurvy.’

‘Oh,’ I said, with surprise, ‘I think they’re quite nice.’

‘Maybe they are,’ said Brigant, ‘but you probably haven’t had to live on them for the past year and a half.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Still,’ said Isabella, ‘it was kind of Hartopp to bring them over.’

‘Yes, if you say so,’ conceded Brigant in a weary tone. He put his hand to his brow and closed his eyes for several long moments, then he opened them again and focused properly on Isabella.

‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘Isabella.’

‘I’m Brigant.’

‘Yes, so we heard,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ said Brigant.

He gave me a nod, then turned and peered at the elegant white tent that shimmered in the distance.

‘Alright for some,’ he remarked. ‘Very posh.’

‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Isabella.

‘Is that Thomas the Proud?’

‘Just Thomas,’ she said, ‘as far as I know.’

I was beginning to warm towards Brigant, in spite of his rather blunt manner. He looked across to the west, where Hen was busily engaged in some task or other.

‘Who’s that fellow?’ he enquired.

‘His name’s Hen,’ I said. ‘He was here first.’

‘Really?’ said Isabella. ‘I thought Thomas was.’

‘Is that what he told you?’

‘Not in so many words,’ she said, ‘but I always assumed he was here before anyone else.’

‘That’s debatable,’ I replied. ‘In any case, Hen was the first to settle so he has the prior claim.’

‘But…’

Isabella got no further because she was suddenly interrupted by Brigant.

‘Does any of this really matter?’ he snapped. ‘After all, it’s only a blasted field we’re talking about!’

I glanced at Brigant with astonishment. Plainly he didn’t share my idealistic vision of the field: a place chosen especially to fulfil its purpose; a place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition. In Brigant’s view it was merely a ‘blasted field’. During the silence which followed his outburst I wondered if his judgement was possibly correct, and if maybe I’d been deceiving myself from the very start. When I considered the question in any depth, I realized that nothing of significance had happened in all those weeks since my arrival. There’d just been sunshine, rain, and more sunshine, accompanied by a slow trickle of newcomers. The facts were irrefutable: the sparse population was barely enough to put us on the map, let alone stir up great events.

Isabella’s expectations had similarly failed to transpire. She’d envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft. It was a vivid picture, and I could easily imagine the scene she’d painted, but as yet it had come to little.

Nevertheless, she remained optimistic.

‘Well, whoever was here first,’ she said, ‘I think we’re all fortunate to have such a lovely meadow.’

Her words seemed to smooth Brigant’s ruffles.

‘I suppose it’ll do,’ he said at length.

Brigant may not have been impressed by his new surroundings, but there was one feature that definitely caught his interest.

‘I see we’ve got a bit of a slope,’ he observed.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly anything really. Almost imperceptible.’

‘A slope’s still a slope,’ said Brigant.

He looked up the field towards the wilderness in the north, then turned again and gazed south.

‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Always a good test, a slope is.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant by this remark. Over the next few days, however, he gradually expanded on the subject. In conversation, he began making reference to the ‘lower field’ and the ‘upper field’, as though the Great Field was somehow divided into two halves. The slope, apparently, was an integral part of this division. Any land that lay to Brigant’s south was the lower field, while the upper field was the land that lay to his north. The line between the two halves was completely arbitrary, of course, yet Brigant persisted in distinguishing one from the other. Furthermore, I noted that he tended always to favour the north. He could often be seen strolling around in the upper field, as he called it, but he seldom ventured southward.

Consequently, I was surprised when early one morning I heard Brigant’s voice outside my tent.

‘Are you awake?’ he asked quietly.

‘Only just,’ I said. ‘What are you doing up and about at this hour?’

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he replied.

‘That makes a change.’

‘Can you come out here please?’

I detected a sense of urgency in his tone, so quickly I put on my boots and went outside.

Brigant was peering towards the river.

‘What do you make of those characters?’ he said.

Over on the other bank were three tents, buff-coloured and conical in shape, with white pennants fluttering from their peaks. Standing beside these tents was a small group of men. They were all clad in identical buff tunics, and all looking in our direction.

‘Not sure what to make of them,’ I said. ‘Any idea how long they’ve been there?’

‘No,’ said Brigant. ‘I didn’t see them arrive.’

‘They seem to be sizing us up.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

A movement in the south-east caught my eye. Thomas appeared in the doorway of his tent, and he soon noticed the men on the opposite bank. I expected him instantly to go marching towards them, just as he had when Hartopp and his companions first landed. Instead, though, he stayed where he was, observing the newcomers but, for the time being, doing nothing.

Brigant, meanwhile, withdrew to his northern hideaway.

This was the state of affairs for the rest of the morning. One by one, Hen, Hartopp and the others turned out to greet another day, only to be met by the sight of the three conical tents. Last to emerge was Isabella. The sun had risen quite high when I saw her tiptoe to the water’s edge. As usual, she discarded her towel and slipped into the river, swimming a few widths before drifting gently downstream. When she neared the shimmering white tent she paused briefly in the shallows, then headed upriver once again. Isabella completed her daily exercise and came ashore, apparently unaware of developments on the southern bank.

A little later, however, after she’d dressed, I saw her gazing across at the neighbouring field. She stood for a long while shading her eyes with her hand, as if studying the landscape in detail, then she came and spoke to me.

‘I see there are some new arrivals,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘They’ve been here since early morning.’

‘I like their pointy tents.’

‘Guessed you might.’

‘Don’t like the colour though.’

‘Ah.’

‘Of all the colours in the world, they go and choose buff!’ she said with disdain. ‘Even their clothes! Honestly, some people have no sense of gaiety.’

‘Apart from him,’ I remarked.

Isabella knew exactly who I was talking about. One of the men seemed somehow different from his comrades. He was tall in stature and noticeably bronzed, and wore a purple sash over his tunic. I presumed from his deportment that he was their leader: occasionally he strode amongst them dishing out commands, but at present he was standing alone near the river, contemplating the Great Field as it lay spread out before him.

‘Yes, well, he is rather exceptional,’ said Isabella.

‘I think he’s a bit of a show-off,’ I said, ‘parading up and down in that purple sash of his.’

We watched as he rejoined the other men and issued a stream of orders. Immediately they abandoned their posts and vanished inside two of the tents. Their leader waited for a few moments, took a final glance across the river, then retired into the third tent.

‘I expect they need some sleep if they’ve been travelling all night,’ I said. ‘I imagine they’ve come a long way.’

‘From the far south, I suppose,’ said Isabella.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘most probably.’

As the afternoon passed, the newcomers became a source of increasing conjecture among the rest of us. In due course, Hartopp’s elder son, Hollis, went down to the crossing to get a closer view of the three tents. On his return, he reported that the fluttering pennants all bore the letter J.

‘I wonder what they want?’ said Hartopp.

‘A place to stay, perhaps,’ I suggested.

‘Then why don’t they cross the river?’

This was a good question. Throughout the evening, muffled conversations could be heard inside various tents as the subject was earnestly pondered. Even Hen came over from the west to join the debate. No conclusions were reached, however, and by the following day nothing had changed.

I arose early and looked southward. The men in the other field were already out and about, but at first I could see no sign of their leader. After a while, though, I spotted him patrolling the river bank in the east. He was more or less opposite Isabella’s crimson tent, which he studied briefly from his vantage point before moving on. He treated Hartopp’s small encampment to the same cursory examination, then he turned and headed back the way he’d come, pausing only to glance at the shimmering white tent. Thomas, it should be mentioned, had remained aloof during the previous evening’s discussions. Hitherto, I’d assumed that the continuing presence of the newcomers would be enough to spur him into action, and indeed Hen had expressed a similar view. After all, it was Thomas who swanked around as if he owned the place, and whose tent dominated the lush pastures of the south-east. Yet he’d done nothing beyond quietly observing the situation from his doorway.

Now, as the bronzed individual passed by on the other side of the river, I wondered who would make the next move.

Isabella, needless to say, was allowing nobody to impinge on her daily routine. Around mid-morning she emerged from her tent, tiptoed to the bank, discarded her towel and slipped into the water. I thought she swam rather more vigorously than usual, and she also spent less time drifting inertly downstream. The cause for this may have been a recent change in the weather: the long sultry period was coming to an end at last. The sun still shone brightly, but a breeze was rising and the temperature had dropped a little. Isabella evidently made up the difference by summoning a burst of energy. Afterwards, when she’d dried and dressed, she came over to see me and Hen. We were standing by my tent, just like the day before, gazing into the south. This was now our main pastime. Ever since the arrival of the newcomers, we’d all become preoccupied with events in the neighbouring field. To tell the truth, we did nothing except watch them while they watched us. Although nobody would admit it, the worst problem was the interminable waiting. With these outsiders seemingly poised to strike across the river at any minute, it was difficult to enjoy the peace and tranquillity to which we were accustomed. Isabella was particularly impatient for the matter to be resolved.

‘Come on then, if you’re coming,’ she murmured, her eyes fixed on the distant sentinels.

‘They’re certainly biding their time,’ remarked Hen. ‘Unless, of course, they’re undecided about what to do next.’

‘Well,’ said Isabella, ‘I wish they’d make their minds up.’

Suddenly, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt impelled to put an end to the deadlock. Without a word to the others I set off towards the crossing, uncertain of exactly what I would do when I got there. The men at the other side saw me approaching, but stayed where they were: obviously they were allowing me to come to them. I was struck by the thought that this could be viewed either as a tactical advantage or a sign of weakness. Either way, there was no turning back now, so I entered the shallows and waded to the opposite bank. As I gained dry land, the man with the purple sash strode forward to meet me.

The opening exchange was polite enough.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ I replied.

‘Weather’s freshening up.’

‘Yes, seems that way.’

‘I expect the water’s cold.’

‘It’s not too bad.’

He regarded me in silence for a few moments, then nodded at the shimmering white tent.

‘That yours, is it?’ he asked.

He knew very well it wasn’t mine: he and his subordinates had been spying on the field for the past twenty-four hours, and they knew precisely which was my tent, which was Thomas’s and so forth.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It isn’t.’

‘So who’s in charge then?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s an odd arrangement.’

‘Not for us, it isn’t. As a matter of fact, it’s perfectly normal.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

His tone so far had been conversational, probably in an attempt to put me at my ease.

Now, however, he dispensed with the subtlety.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘State your business.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘some of us who’ve been here for a while were wondering what your plans might be.’

He gave me a quizzical look. ‘What difference does it make how long you’ve been here?’

‘It makes a difference to some,’ I assured him.

‘I see.’ He paused briefly before continuing. ‘Our plans,’ he said at length, ‘depend on what’s on offer.’

‘Ah.’

‘So if you’ll spell out your terms we can take it from there.’

‘Right.’

I was beginning to realize I’d crossed the river entirely unprepared for this encounter. I had no idea what kind of offer he was referring to, or how it could possibly affect his plans. Moreover, it was becoming clear that I needed to be circumspect in my dealings with these people. I could tell they weren’t here just to play games: on the contrary, the outcome of our meeting could be critical.

‘Before we start,’ I said, ‘may I enquire who I’m talking to?’

‘I would have assumed you knew that already,’ he answered tersely. ‘I am Julian.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’

I glanced towards the three conical tents, where the other men stood observing the proceedings. From the peak of each tent flew a white pennant, emblazoned with a purple letter J.

Julian, in the meantime, was waiting for my next move.

‘So?’ he said.

‘I’ll probably need to consult with the others,’ I replied.

‘Consult?’ he repeated. ‘But surely you were sent over to negotiate.’

‘Sort of, yes,’ I said.

‘What do you mean “sort of”?’

Julian’s manner was getting increasingly irritable, unfriendly even, and I was at a loss for what to say next without causing further upset. Just then, however, he began peering into the distance.

‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Who’s this coming?’

Immediately I turned and saw Thomas entering the river at the far side, his white robes swirling all around him. Julian instantly forgot about me and marched to the water’s edge; then he stood stock still, waiting, as Thomas drew near. His followers, meanwhile, watched attentively.

I never thought I’d be pleased to see Thomas wading across the river, but on this occasion I was more than pleased: I was delighted, not to mention thoroughly relieved. Undoubtedly, I’d taken on more than I could handle. All at once, with Thomas riding to my rescue, I felt a great burden being lifted from me.

Nonetheless, there was a price to pay. As Thomas stepped ashore, he shook hands courteously with Julian. The pair then came wandering inland together, deep in conversation. Evidently, Julian had invited Thomas to inspect the three conical tents. The route they took passed within a few yards of where I was standing, yet neither of them granted me so much as a nod. They simply ignored me and continued on their way. Julian’s underlings witnessed this blatant snub and openly smirked about it amongst themselves. In response, I turned and stalked off to the river bank. Next minute I was in the shallows and heading back towards the Great Field.

By the time I reached the opposite shore, my mood had subsided into sheer disgruntlement. The episode with Julian had been highly embarrassing, and I was inclined to make directly for my tent and lie low for several days. What I didn’t want to face was a reception committee, so when I saw Isabella and Hartopp coming to meet me I quickened my pace. It was no use, though: they cut across and intercepted me before I reached sanctuary.

‘What’s this?’ I demanded. ‘A post-mortem?’

Hartopp appeared startled by my harsh words.

‘No,’ he said, ‘we’ve come to congratulate you.’

‘Oh?’

‘A brilliant move,’ he added.

I stared at him with bewilderment. ‘What move?’

‘Don’t be modest,’ said Isabella. ‘It was you who set the wheels in motion. You went and parleyed with the newcomers and prepared the ground for Thomas. Excellent work!’

For a few moments I allowed myself to bask in this unexpected praise, then I offered a verdict of my own.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘he’ll need to keep his wits about him when he’s talking to those people.’

‘Why, what are they like?’ asked Hartopp.

‘I only spoke to Julian,’ I replied, ‘and he struck me as a rather prickly customer.’

‘Is he the one with the purple sash?’

‘Correct.’

‘He looks very athletic,’ said Isabella.

‘An apt description,’ I said. ‘Yes, I imagine he’s quite competitive when it comes to the cut and thrust.’

‘Still,’ said Hartopp, ‘they’ve only got three tents, so we’ll most likely manage to find them a place.’

Hartopp was being his usual generous self, but I had a feeling that matters weren’t as simple as he thought. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the newcomers meekly settling amongst the rest of us. The way they’d surveyed the field from a distance suggested that their intentions were altogether much grander; and Julian’s remarks about what might be on offer only underlined my suspicions.

At the other side of the river, Thomas’s mission was ongoing. We watched as he was given a guided tour of the conical tents; then he sat down for further discussions with Julian. These lasted an hour or so before the pair of them rose abruptly to their feet and headed for the crossing. Side by side they entered the water and waded towards the Great Field.

‘Here they come,’ announced Isabella.

I noted with interest that she didn’t venture down to greet Julian; neither did Hartopp.

As soon as they stepped ashore, Thomas led his guest to the shimmering white tent, presumably for a reciprocal tour of inspection. Afterwards, Julian spent a good while pacing around in the south-east, gazing in all directions and generally studying the lie of the land. Thomas, in the meantime, stood quietly aside.

Darkness was falling when I saw Julian returning across the river. Isabella and Hartopp had long since drifted back to their tents, both apparently in the belief that the meeting had reached a satisfactory conclusion. I wasn’t quite so sure. Over the past few days Thomas seemed to have lost much of his previous strut and swagger. For reasons of his own he’d shouldered the mantle of responsibility, but I was uncertain whether he was a match for Julian.

Unsurprisingly, I had another restless night. In a series of peculiar dreams featuring Isabella, Julian and me, I constantly found myself on the wrong side of the river trying to get across. Sometime after daybreak I woke up all in a tangle and peered out through my doorway. I half-expected Julian’s tents to have moved into the Great Field. To my amazement, however, they’d vanished completely, and so had the shimmering white tent.

It took me a few seconds to adjust to this drastic change of scenery. The south-east suddenly appeared forsaken and empty without its prize exhibit overlooking the river, and the surrounding fields had a similar air of abandonment. Beneath a grey, overcast sky, an unseasonably brisk wind came gusting out of the east, doing little to enhance the gloomy prospect. With a mounting sense of disquiet I emerged from my tent and glanced all around. Thankfully, nobody else had gone: Isabella, Hartopp, Brigant and Hen were still in their usual places.

Actually, Hen was already up and about, and when he saw me he came sauntering over.

‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Quite a change from yesterday.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘The birds have flown.’

‘Did you see them go?’

‘Yes, very early,’ said Hen. ‘They all went off together.’

‘Really?’

‘Those other people helped Thomas with his tent, then the entire company headed southward.’

Hen’s disclosure was most intriguing, and for a while I pondered the information in silence.

Over at the far side of the field we could see Hollis slowly making his way along the river bank, pausing from time to time at the various viewpoints. Keeping a respectful distance, he skirted around Isabella’s crimson abode before continuing towards the south-east. When he reached the turn of the river he stopped and peered at the ground. I knew precisely what he was looking at: he was examining the octagonal impression left in the grass by Thomas’s tent. Over the past few weeks I’d noticed that Hollis approached most subjects in a forensic manner, a trait which I supposed he’d inherited from Hartopp. He seemed fascinated by everything scientific, mechanical, mathematical and, in this case, geometrical.

Hen, who was still standing beside me, said nothing. Was he tempted, I wondered, to go and see the impression for himself, just to confirm that Thomas had definitely gone?

Hollis, meanwhile, had resumed his journey along the river bank, and was now on the southern stretch. When he neared the crossing he halted for a moment as if contemplating his options, then without further delay he entered the water and waded to the other side. As Hen and I looked on, he went ashore and headed for the spot where the three conical tents had stood. Once again he inspected the ground, closely studying the impression left by Julian and his comrades.

‘Did you find out what they wanted?’ asked Hen, finally breaking the silence.

‘Not really, no,’ I replied. ‘It was all rather vague.’

‘Maybe Thomas found out.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ I said, ‘but we’ll probably never know.’

Eventually Hollis turned and retraced his steps back to the north-east. Whether he’d learnt anything from his investigations was unclear, but Hen and I were certainly no wiser than he was. A great unanswered question now hung over the field, a question that would dominate everyone’s thoughts and conversations during the succeeding days. Despite endless conjecture, nobody could explain the swift departure of both Thomas and Julian’s people.

There was also a secondary matter for consideration, raised largely at the behest of Isabella.

‘The field looks completely wrong now,’ she announced, one blustery afternoon. ‘It’s all gone out of balance.’

She was referring to the emptiness of the south-east, her implication being that the vacant space should be taken over by one of us.

‘Why don’t you move then?’ I suggested.

‘No, I’m perfectly happy where I am,’ she said. ‘I actually meant you.’

I could see the logic of her argument. In reality, I was the only candidate. Neither Hartopp nor Brigant showed the slightest inclination to head southward, and I knew that Hen was firmly embedded in the west. The trouble for me, as always, lay with the impression in the grass. Once again I was reluctant to transplant my tent until all traces of the previous occupant had faded away. Therefore, I decided to stay where I was for the present.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Isabella, ‘but you’re missing a golden opportunity.’

That night I lay listening to the wind as it gradually increased in strength. Without doubt we were in for a period of inclement weather. I was confident it would improve again sooner or later: there was no reason why it shouldn’t. Nevertheless, the halcyon days of summer now felt far removed, and it occurred to me that they’d passed without my even noticing.

Around dawn the clamour of the wind was augmented by another sound which at first I couldn’t identify. It was coming from the south, and as I slowly awakened I recognized the distant blast of a trumpet. I looked out through my doorway and saw a huge assembly of men on the other side of the river. They were all clad in buff-coloured tunics, and as I observed them a sort of dull realization crept over me: Julian and his minions were merely the advance party; now, at last, the main body had arrived.

There was nothing to be done, of course. We few settlers were powerless to prevent an influx of such magnitude. Quickly I alerted Hartopp and the others to the situation in the south, then we watched in silence as the newcomers got themselves organized. Within an hour they were swarming across the river, carrying all kinds of equipment, supplies and baggage. Their logistical proficiency was astonishing to behold: it was evident they’d selected their ground beforehand, and every move appeared part of a carefully planned operation. They deployed their tents in a perfect grid formation, with all the pitches marked out precisely. Each tent was identical in size, colour and shape; each faced in the same direction; and each had a white pennant flying from its peak. When the work was finished the new encampment commanded the whole of the south-east. Along its perimeter ran a low picket fence, and at every corner stood a flagpole.

Isabella, naturally, was outraged.

‘What a sight!’ she said. ‘It’s a monstrosity!’

‘Well, isn’t it just what you envisaged?’ I said. ‘A vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft?’

‘Those tents don’t billow,’ she retorted. ‘They’re much too stiff.’

It was the evening of the same day, and we were all gathered beneath Hartopp’s awning. Despite his lavish hospitality, the meeting had the sombre undercurrent of a secret conclave. The chief subject of debate was the incursion in the south-east, but Isabella was now voicing wider concerns.

‘What the field needs is variety,’ she continued. ‘We don’t want row upon row of identical tents: we want marquees, douars, shāmiyānas, kibitkas, cabanas, tupiks and pandals; we want pavilions with crenellated decorations and swagged contours; and above all we want gorgeous colours: turquoise, vermilion, indigo, magenta and saffron.’

‘Sounds more like a fairground,’ remarked Brigant. ‘What’s wrong with green or brown?’

‘Far too bland,’ said Isabella.

‘You forgot to mention bell tents,’ I said. ‘They’re quite nice.’

Isabella was about to reply when she was interrupted by the strident blast of a trumpet.

‘That’s the third time today,’ said Hollis, after it had fallen silent. ‘They must be signalling dawn, noon and dusk.’

‘Confounded cheek!’ snapped Isabella. ‘What gives them the right to disturb the peace?’

‘Don’t know,’ I said, ‘but we might have to get used to it.’

‘We could go and ask them to pipe down a little,’ suggested Hartopp. ‘The problem is, they seem rather unsociable.’

We all agreed about that.

Since the moment of their arrival, Julian’s people had made not the slightest effort to engage with the rest of us. Indeed, they barely acknowledged our existence. It was almost as if they were being deliberately stand-offish, and it soon began to affect how we saw them. Hartopp was a generous and good-natured person, yet even he was reluctant to go and make their acquaintance.

As a matter of fact there’d been no sign of Julian himself so far, but I assumed he planned to return in the near future. His confederates, meanwhile, showed increasing disregard for their neighbours. Over the next few days they established a highly disruptive routine. Each morning at dawn they announced their presence with a loud trumpet blast, followed by a roll-call, an exercise drill and a general inspection, all before breakfast and plainly without a thought for anyone who might happen to be asleep. An afternoon parade was conducted in the same inconsiderate manner: there was absolutely no respite. Our idyll of tranquillity was rapidly fading into a distant memory. The newcomers had set themselves apart, and in consequence an unseen barrier gradually arose between the south-east and the remainder of the field. The possibility of approaching them, if only to try and improve relations, appeared ever more remote.

After a week, however, they sent round a message saying they had a surplus of milk pudding. They said they were willing to share it with the rest of us if we came into their camp at noon.

All they asked was that we brought our own spoons and dishes.