The Field of the Cloth of Gold Read Free

south.’
    I had to admit it was something I’d been unaware of. In fact, only by squinting across the field at ground level was I able to detect any sign of this slope, so gentle was its character. Later, out of sheer curiosity, I took a stroll to the far north. When finally I turned and looked southward, I had a definite feeling of being slightly higher up than when I started. Hen was proved to be quite correct.
    Actually, I found it interesting to see the field laid out before me like this. Situated within the bend of the river, it was effectively separated from all the adjacent fields. The wilderness in the north acted as an additional boundary, and together these factors created a distinct sense of seclusion. It was as if our field had been deliberately set aside in order to fulfil some exalted purpose. No wonder we thought of it as somewhere special: the place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition.
    I noticed, however, that the quality of the grass deteriorated the further up the field I progressed. Throughout the north it was coarse and dry, a striking contrast with the verdant south, and presumably a direct consequence of the slope. The land drained from north to south, which meant that the south received more than its fair share of rainwater. Viewed from a northern perspective, this seemed like an injustice.
    With these thoughts in mind I wandered down into the south-east. I still harboured the intention of moving there in due course, and I wanted to know if the ground had begun to dry out. I had my eye on a luscious spot within easy reach of the river, and which looked particularly attractive today with the sun shining brightly; yet when I approached I discovered somebody else had beaten me to it. A faint impression in the grass told me another tent had been there until fairly recently. It was already starting to fade but the evidence was unmistakable: I estimated it would take another week before it vanished altogether. In the meantime there was no question of pitching my tent in the same location, so with disappointment I postponed my plans once again.
    The remarkable thing about this other tent, though, was its shape: closer examination revealed that the impression in the grass was a perfect octagon. I tried to picture an octagonal tent standing all alone in the south-east, and suddenly I felt a surge of indignation rising up inside me. Having to relinquish the prime position was tiresome enough, but the idea of losing it to some interloper with a fancy, octagonal tent verged on outrageous!
    These sentiments were hardly lessened when I considered the practical shortcomings of such a tent. Surely, I reasoned, it would be entirely unsuited to all but the mildest of weather conditions: if it didn’t collapse under its own weight, then no doubt it would be blown away at the first hint of a storm. The field, after all, could be a harsh billet at the turn of the season. What it required was a robust, low tent of the kind favoured by frontiersmen. Stout canvas would be the fabric of choice. The octagonal tent, by contrast, was most likely fashioned from an untested cloth chosen more for its appearance than its durability. Perhaps, of course, this was the very reason it was no longer in place: maybe its owners had realized their folly, and retreated to more temperate climes. If so, then they were plainly ignorant of the field’s importance; otherwise they wouldn’t have abandoned it quite so readily.
    As I pondered these arguments it struck me that my feelings on the subject were both contrary and illogical. In one instant I’d conjured up an imaginary tent, passed judgement on it and wished it out of existence. In other words, I was displaying all the symptoms of acute envy. Somewhere at the back of my mind I knew I was profoundly jealous of the octagonal tent. Without question it must have been a magnificent sight as it stood overlooking the river, and, to tell the truth, part of me regretted