The Field of the Cloth of Gold

7

The messenger’s name was Eamont. He was of lowly status and had no influence or authority. He’d only been appointed messenger recently on account of his handwriting, which wasn’t faultless, but which was fairly easy to read. The post gave him certain privileges, and he considered himself lucky, but he had no influence or authority. None whatsoever. He told me all this as we stood waiting outside the cookhouse. Actually he’d told me several times before, but obviously he’d forgotten. I was now on my fourth visit to the encampment, and I’d turned up early to enquire if I might have a few words with Aldebaran on a delicate subject. Eamont said he would see what he could do, but he couldn’t promise anything (he had no influence or authority).

‘By the way,’ he added, ‘it’s not a cookhouse: it’s a field kitchen.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘No need to apologize,’ he said. ‘Just setting you straight, that’s all. We’re very particular about these details.’

‘Right.’

The sharp blast of a trumpet signalled noon. I thanked Eamont, then went inside to collect my daily ration. The cooks greeted me with a nod as I entered, and I found my spoon and dish already set out at my usual table. I was getting quite used to the high standard of service in the field kitchen, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t last much longer: the surplus of milk pudding must surely have been reduced by now. Moreover, the cooks were unlikely to repeat their mistake, so today might be my last chance to speak to Aldebaran.

A quarter of an hour passed and he failed to make an appearance. I finished my pudding, then the cooks cleared away my dish and spoon, returning them a few minutes later, sparkling clean. This confirmed that I was definitely on my final visit to the field kitchen. I waited a little longer. Other diners came and went, but Aldebaran was not among them. I’d just begun to give up hope of seeing him when abruptly the flap parted and he came sweeping in. When he saw me sitting at my table he came straight over.

‘Everything alright?’ he asked. ‘Pudding sweet enough?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Very nice.’

He gave me a searching look. ‘Was there something else?’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘it’s about the trumpet.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘There are some people in the field who find it rather loud.’

‘Which people?’

‘Isabella, for example. One or two others as well, but especially Isabella.’

‘The woman with the crimson tent.’

‘Yes.’

Throughout the conversation, Aldebaran had been standing over me. Now he sat down in the seat opposite mine. I noticed he was frowning deeply.

‘We were wondering,’ I said, ‘if the trumpet could be somehow muted.’

He considered the request for several moments.

‘That would appease her, would it?’ he said at last.

‘It might help,’ I replied.

There was another pause, and I could tell that Aldebaran had something further to ask me.

The question, when it came, was direct. ‘I presume she intends to continue swimming in the river?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What she does is her affair.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Aldebaran. ‘All the same, it would help if we knew for certain.’

‘Would it?’

‘From our point of view it’s fairly important.’

‘Well, she’s swum every day since she’s been here,’ I said, ‘so I can’t imagine her changing her ways now.’

‘I see.’

We sat in silence for some minutes while Aldebaran pondered whatever was on his mind, then, all of a sudden, his mood brightened.

‘Do you think she’d care to come and inspect the camp?’ he enquired.

‘Again, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I really can’t answer for Isabella.’

‘It’s all very spick-and-span at present.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her yourself.’

‘Very well,’ said Aldebaran, evidently resigned to the fact. ‘In the meantime, how about you?’

‘Inspect the camp?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re an honoured guest: you’ve partaken of our milk pudding.’

‘Alright,’ I replied. ‘Thank you.’

‘Come on then. We can start now.’

As we rose from our seats, another thought occurred to him.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘it’s not a trumpet: it’s a bugle.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘No need to apologize,’ he remarked. ‘Just setting you straight, that’s all. We’re very particular about these details.’

‘Right.’

The two of us went outside and the guided tour began. Aldebaran strode briskly around the camp, explaining its various features as I tagged along behind. Obviously I’d seen many of the tents on previous occasions when I passed by, but now I was obliged to examine their every aspect. Their main characteristics were sturdiness and general utility, and they obviously served an important purpose. In appearance, however, they lacked any grace and charm: consequently, I was soon struggling to pay attention. We walked up and down the perfectly straight rows of tents, and it struck me that Hartopp would have found the tour much more interesting than I did. I was certain he’d have been intrigued by the strict geometric forms on display, not to mention the stout fabric employed. Unfortunately, Hartopp persisted in his refusal to enter the sprawling cantonment, despite my reassurances that the newcomers weren’t as bad as they’d first seemed. On several occasions I’d urged him to come and try the milk pudding, which I strongly recommended, but it was all in vain. Hartopp simply didn’t want to know. During the past few days Brigant and the others had shown similar intransigence, the result being that I was the only person on Aldebaran’s conducted tour.

Finally we emerged into the thoroughfare which separated the command tents from their smaller companions, and I remembered the nickname we’d coined on the day the camp was built.

‘We call this the “high street”,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ replied Aldebaran, ‘so do we.’

The inspection ended where it had begun, outside the field kitchen. We halted by the entrance: I’d left my spoon and dish on the table, planning to collect them before I departed. It was now approaching mid-afternoon. All along the ‘high street’ the pennants were fluttering in the breeze, and for a few moments I paused to admire the spectacle.

‘I see you’ve altered the design,’ I said at length.

Aldebaran followed my gaze, but offered no reply.

‘When Julian was here they were emblazoned with the letter J,’ I added. ‘Now they’re plain white.’

Still Aldebaran said nothing. Slightly puzzled by his silence, I glanced at him and saw that he was studying the nearest pennant intently, as though he’d only just noticed it. When at last he spoke, his tone was grave.

‘Nobody liked Julian,’ he said, ‘so we got rid of him.’

I was uncertain how to respond to this news. I’d only met Julian once and we hadn’t exactly taken to one another, yet he’d appeared to be a very capable individual and the idea that he’d been ‘got rid of’ was rather unsettling. Privately I wondered if they had the habit of summarily dispensing with people they didn’t like, but I decided it would be best not to pursue the matter further. Instead, I merely nodded as if it was an everyday occurrence, before thanking Aldebaran for the guided tour and heading homeward. It was only after I’d trudged across the field to my tent that I realized I’d forgotten my dish and spoon. By this time the entire encampment had started mustering for the afternoon parade, so I decided to postpone collecting them until a later date.

Next morning I listened attentively for the sound of the bugle, hoping it would be muted as I’d requested. It had been a dark night, and when dawn came the sun tried but failed to break through the gathering clouds. I waited for almost half an hour and heard nothing: the sky turned red, yet there was still no bugle call. I concluded, therefore, that my mission had been more successful than I’d dared hope. Aldebaran had evidently heeded my plea and cancelled the bugle altogether.

‘Hmm,’ I thought to myself. ‘Isabella will be delighted.’

A good while later she took her daily swim, and then came ashore to get dried and dressed. After a polite interlude, I expected to see Eamont approach her tent bearing an invitation to visit the camp. To my surprise, though, there was no sign of him, and I soon discovered the reason why. Around noon another train of baggage and supplies arrived at the far side of the river, accompanied by a host of men in buff-coloured tunics. There were also several women. Immediately the whole of the south-east became a hive of activity, with hordes of people coming and going in all directions: no doubt Eamont was too busy to run up and down with invitations for Isabella. Amongst the supplies I spotted a bulky item which had to be carried across the river by four men. I was unable to tell what it was because it was wrapped in a tarpaulin, and anyway the porters were quickly lost from view amid the milling throng.

The majority of the baggage consisted of tents. These were swiftly laid out and erected under the watchful eyes of a surveyor, a quartermaster and a clerk of works. I’d often noticed this trio of officials during my visits to the encampment, and I presumed they acted as deputies to Aldebaran. From what I observed, they were always highly efficient. Before the end of the day, a new row of tents was established and the camp’s perimeter extended.

In the early evening I went over to see Hen. He was the person least affected by the developments in the south-east, and I looked forward to a refreshing conversation with someone who didn’t constantly complain about the newcomers. On this point my wishes were met: Hen was apparently unconcerned about the enlargement of the camp. I was taken aback, however, by his response when I told him what had happened to Julian. I recounted what Aldebaran had said, and when I finished Hen raised his eyebrows.

‘I would have thought,’ he remarked, ‘that you’d be more worried about Thomas than Julian.’

‘Oh, yes, Thomas,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten all about him.’

‘Forgotten?’ said Hen, plainly astonished. ‘But he’s one of us.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure about that,’ I said.

‘Of course he is,’ Hen declared. ‘He was amongst the first here.’

I peered at Hen with mild disbelief. It struck me that he was being surprisingly loyal to Thomas, considering the rival claims of days gone by. Clearly his perceptions had altered. At the same moment I realized that my own loyalty was to the Great Field itself, rather than any particular person (and especially not Thomas). Nonetheless, I had no desire to fall out with Hen, so I simply shrugged and remained silent.

‘For all we know, Thomas could be in all sorts of difficulty,’ Hen continued. ‘He left with Julian’s people, seemingly of his own accord, but it’s obvious there’s been a change of circumstance.’

‘Yes,’ I conceded, ‘I suppose so.’

‘Perhaps you could find out more.’

‘Me?’ I said. ‘How can I find out?’

‘You’re friendly with them, aren’t you?’ replied Hen. ‘You know who’s in charge over there.’

‘Yes, it’s Aldebaran,’ I said, ‘but he never really tells me anything. Most of the time he’s busy asking questions about Isabella.’

‘And you answer them?’

‘Yes, usually.’

‘Singing for your supper,’ said Hen.

‘No, you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘I accept their hospitality, that’s all: I’m very partial to their milk pudding.’

Hen shook his head solemnly.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll see.’

I returned to my tent feeling slightly disquieted by Hen’s comments. It had begun to dawn on me that I may have incurred a cost for all those liberal helpings I’d enjoyed. I should have known better. It was one thing being an ‘honoured guest’ in the encampment: it was quite another to be derided by my companions. I resolved to be careful in future about where I went and what I said to whom.

As it happened, the newcomers focused more attention on Isabella than all the rest of us put together. After a few days she received a visit from Eamont. I witnessed the event at a distance but, even so, I could see he was looking rather harassed. He brought a note informing Isabella that a command tent had been set aside for her exclusive use. Within its walls were a copper bath and an ample supply of hot water. A selection of soaps and freshly laundered towels had been provided, and a number of handmaidens would be in attendance at all hours. Could she please be so kind as to accept the offer forthwith?

Needless to say, Eamont returned to the camp thoroughly disappointed. His superiors had clearly gone to the utmost lengths to win Isabella over, yet despite their blandishments she maintained her custom of bathing naked in the river. I could have told them they were wasting their efforts from the very start, but they never asked me.

In the meantime, the weather continued to deteriorate. Across the entire field, all the flags and pennants were at full stretch. There was definitely some rain on the way. Over in the north-east, Hartopp began to prepare for the oncoming deluge, cautiously adjusting his awnings and tightening his guy ropes. Likewise, Brigant improved his defences with an oilcloth flysheet.

By now, of course, we’d all heard about Isabella rejecting the invitation. Brigant and I discussed it one afternoon as the sky darkened.

‘It sounded most luxurious,’ I said. ‘Hot water in abundance, handmaidens, freshly laundered towels.’

‘Decadent, more like,’ uttered Brigant.

‘To tell the truth, I would welcome a hot bath myself.’

‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but it’s Isabella they’re trying to tame, not you.’

‘I’m fully aware of that,’ I replied. ‘Still, it’s a pity the bath’s gone unused, especially with the weather on the turn.’

‘Why?’ said Brigant. ‘Are you finding life in the field too tough?’

‘No.’

‘Well stop being so soft then!’

This wasn’t the first time Brigant had spoken in such terms. He was becoming increasingly intolerant of the soft life, as he called it. Other targets included frailty and decadence, but the general heading was softness (he tended to forget that he was once quite soft himself). It all arose from his division of the field into upper and lower parts. The division was purely notional, a product of his own invention, but Brigant was unbending in his belief. Over recent weeks he’d developed the idea further, and concluded that life became steadily harder the higher up the slope someone lived, as if it was a sort of sliding scale. Personally, I couldn’t see any difference: we all endured exactly the same weather conditions, seasonal changes and so on. Moreover, as I mentioned before, the slope barely amounted to anything; indeed it was scarcely perceptible, a minor inconvenience at worst. Nevertheless, Brigant insisted that life was harsher in the upper field.

His theory was about to be put to the test. After another day of threatening skies and rising winds, the rain finally came sweeping in. It was heavy and unremitting and didn’t cease for a week, during which period we were all confined to our tents. In these circumstances, there was nothing to do except wait patiently for the end. Even so, we had to endure a very dreary spell. For hour after hour, I listened to the sound of rain drumming on my roof. When I peeked out through my opening I could see the entire south-eastern encampment reduced to an indeterminate blur of dripping canvas; there was no sign of movement; puddles were forming in the avenues; and even the numerous flags and pennants were hanging down limp and wet. Over in the north-east, Hartopp’s angular tent appeared equally lifeless, though no doubt he was sheltering under his awning, eagerly testing its resistance to the weather and recording the facts for future reference. Meanwhile, hunched beneath his flysheet, Brigant sat and glowered at the driving rain.

Eventually my gaze fell on Isabella’s tent, faraway to the east. I’d never been invited beyond its tasselled portal, but I assumed the interior was dry, warm and cosy. I knew it was furnished with a tapestry and a collection of velvet cushions: I’d watched her carefully installing them on the day she arrived. There was also an eiderdown. Apart from that I knew nothing. She’d positioned her tent facing west so that she could catch the sun going down at the end of each day. As a consequence, it lay in my direct line of vision. I’d seen it on countless occasions and could even picture it with my eyes closed. Isabella’s door was always in view, yet she remained forever unapproachable. She’d made it plain from the beginning that she preferred to be alone; she was independent and forthright; furthermore, as her admirers had discovered, she was notoriously difficult to please. Still, I continued to live in hope. Isabella’s tent was crimson on the outside, sometimes flaring into fiery red, but I liked to imagine it was lined with cloth of gold.

When at last the rain subsided, I emerged to find the ground underfoot very wet indeed. It made coming and going unpleasant for a day or two. The problem was most pronounced in the south-east. No sooner had the sky cleared than I saw Aldebaran and his officials pacing around the encampment, prodding at the turf with rods and generally assessing the situation. Later I saw several of their men digging gullies between the tents. Obviously the area was waterlogged and they were taking appropriate measures.

Ever since arriving, the newcomers had seldom ventured beyond their self-imposed boundary: this was a point which had always stood in their favour. For some reason they were only interested in occupying their own corner, and the rest of the field they left untouched. I was intrigued, therefore, when I noticed the surveyor and an assistant walking along the river bank in the east. The assistant was carrying a large spool of string, a mallet and some wooden pegs. I saw Isabella peering out at them as they skirted her crimson tent, but they continued on their way with no more than a polite nod. I could now see that the surveyor was taking very deliberate strides, as if gauging a particular distance. Finally, the two of them came to a halt. The assistant knocked a peg into the ground and attached the string. Next, the surveyor produced an object from his pocket and examined it closely. It transpired that this was a compass; in due course he despatched his assistant westward with the spool of string, the mallet and another peg. The string was gradually paid out as he advanced across the field. I thought he passed unnecessarily close to Brigant’s tent (there was, after all, plenty of room on either side), but he pressed on regardless. Fortunately, Brigant was elsewhere at the time. When the string ran out the assistant stopped and waited. He hadn’t quite reached Hen’s territory in the extreme west, but apparently he’d gone far enough to satisfy the surveyor. At a given signal he knocked the second peg into the ground and pulled the string tight. Immediately it snagged on Brigant’s tent. The surveyor gave it a flick from his end to try and straighten it, but again it snagged. Unperturbed, the assistant tied the string to the peg and returned to join the surveyor. After a brief discussion, they headed back along the river towards the camp.

As soon as they were out of sight, I went over to investigate. The string was fairly taut and chafed against Brigant’s flysheet. Patently the plan had been to set out a straight line between the pegs, but the tent had got in the way.

‘What’s going on here?’ said a voice beside me. It belonged to Brigant. He’d been visiting Hartopp and had just come back. I explained to him about the surveyor and his assistant.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘couldn’t they have asked me before they started?’

‘You weren’t here,’ I replied. ‘Maybe they decided to leave it till tomorrow and then ask.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ said Brigant, although he didn’t sound convinced.

We were still debating the matter when Isabella arrived. She’d observed the episode with the string and was naturally incensed.

‘You should march into their camp,’ she told Brigant, ‘and demand they remove that string at once!’

‘I can’t be bothered,’ he said. ‘It’s probably easier to shift my tent.’

‘You can’t do that!’ said Isabella. ‘You’d be giving in to them.’

‘Really, I don’t mind,’ said Brigant, with a sigh. ‘All I want is a quiet life. Besides, I’ve been thinking of moving further up the field for a good while now. It’s more interesting in the north.’

Despite Isabella’s protestations, Brigant was adamant, so later the same day I went and helped him take his tent down. He chose a pitch some distance up the slope, and together we moved everything.

‘It’ll be good to get that trumpet out of earshot,’ he remarked, when we’d finished our work.

I was tempted to correct Brigant on two counts, but I thought better of it and made no comment.

The offending length of string now lay perfectly straight across the field. Next morning, the surveyor and his assistant returned for a brief inspection, nodded their heads in approval, then went away again.

Around noon, when milk pudding was normally being served in the field kitchen, a small party of men left the encampment and followed the river to the spot where the string line began. They were carrying spades, pick-axes and shovels. It was a slightly odd scene: despite their plentiful stock of tools, these characters seemed distinctly unworkmanlike. They straggled along dragging their heels, and were plainly in no hurry to begin whatever task they’d been assigned. In this respect they were quite different from the other men in the camp: the majority performed their duties with flawless efficiency. The present bunch, by contrast, hardly knew where to start. They stood around, gawping at the peg and the length of string as though they’d never seen such items before; then they turned and gazed haplessly into the west. Eventually one of them started poking at the ground with his spade, but to such little effect that he soon gave up. Another tried a pick-axe, and similarly failed to make any impression. I was getting frustrated just watching their antics, so after a while I strolled casually across the field, drifting in their general direction but trying my best to remain aloof. I didn’t really want to get involved with the newcomers again, but on the other hand I was interested to know what they were trying to do. There was no harm, I reasoned, in taking a closer look.

I received a shock, however, as I drew nearer the gang of workers. All at once I recognized the cooks from the field kitchen: the very same men who until recently had stirred my milk pudding. Among them was the cook who’d served me on my first visit to the encampment. His name was Yadegarian and he’d told me about the various types of pudding on offer. As I recalled, his advice had been most helpful. I’d met his colleagues on subsequent days, and they’d struck me as a friendly bunch. Today, though, I couldn’t help noticing how downcast they all appeared. When they saw me approaching they ceased their futile endeavours and regarded me listlessly.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What are you fellows doing here?’

‘We’re supposed to be digging a trench,’ said Yadegarian, ‘but we’re not really cut out for this sort of work.’

‘So why’ve you got to do it?’

By way of answer, he and the other cooks merely bowed their heads. It was almost as if they were ashamed of something.

‘Are you in trouble?’ I asked.

They all looked at one another for a moment, then Yadegarian spoke.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we are.’

‘Why?’

‘We produced a shortage of milk pudding. We measured the ingredients in the wrong quantities.’

‘Not again!’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘And this is your punishment?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘What kind of regime is it, exactly?’

The cooks ventured no opinion. Instead, they just stood there, silent and forlorn.

I puffed out my cheeks and stared thoughtfully at the length of string stretching away into the distance.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it looks as if you’ve no choice but to get on with the job.’

‘But we’ve no idea how to do it!’ protested Yadegarian. He was plainly very concerned.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I replied. ‘I can give you a few pointers.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, for instance, you’re all wearing sandals. They’re wholly inappropriate for heavy labouring: you’d be much better off in proper workboots.’

I indicated my own footwear.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Yadegarian, with a glimmer of recognition. ‘I think we can get those from our quartermaster.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible then.’

‘Alright.’

With a wave of my hand I grouped the cooks around me so they could see what I was talking about.

‘Next,’ I continued, ‘you’ll need to learn about the wide range of tools at your disposal. Each has a specific role: pick-axes are for breaking up the earth; spades are for digging; shovels are for excavation: you’ll soon get the hang of it and then I can show you how to use them correctly.’

In order to get the job started, I grabbed a spade and dug the first section of ground myself. The going was fairly easy, and I soon had the beginnings of a trench. Alongside it lay a neat pile of earth.

‘There you are,’ I said. ‘Just use the string line as a guide and it should be nice and straight when it’s finished.’

Obviously I couldn’t leave them unsupervised, at least not until they’d tried doing it themselves, so I watched while they took turns with the spades, shovels and picks. Initially they struggled, but I offered plenty of encouragement and gradually they developed a suitable work rate. Even so, it had become clear that digging the trench was no small undertaking. By my reckoning, the job could last four or five days. In the meantime, I assumed the cooks were excused kitchen duties. When I asked them, however, they all shook their heads.

‘The demands of the kitchen remain the same,’ explained Yadegarian. ‘We’re having to get up extra early just to keep on top of everything.’

‘How early?’

‘Well, this morning we were baking biscuits before dawn.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I like biscuits.’

‘They’re our speciality,’ said Yadegarian.

‘Not milk pudding?’

‘No.’

I mentioned that Hartopp was a keen advocate of biscuits and always maintained a copious stock; but Yadegarian seemed too preoccupied by the present task to absorb the information. It was patently weighing heavily upon him.

Naturally, I felt rather guilty about standing idly by when the cooks had been working all hours. Therefore, I decided to pitch in and help them finish the trench. I selected a shovel as my weapon of choice; then I set to and laboured until late afternoon. With an extra man in the team we made excellent progress, though the cooks began to flag when evening drew near. Finally, at dusk, I suggested we called a halt, and they thanked me for my assistance before wandering back to the encampment. The trench was starting to take definite shape and form, and as I gazed at our handiwork I suddenly realized that neither Hartopp, Brigant nor any of the others had been over to have a look. It was too late now, of course, because it was almost dark, but I was surprised that nobody had come and shown any interest in the project. Actually, when I thought about it, they were all noticeable by their absence, and vaguely I wondered what could be the reason.