The Field of the Cloth of Gold Read Free Page A

never seeing it.
    Nonetheless, I was cross with Hen for failing to mention the other tent. If I’d known about it earlier I could have made alternative plans; instead of which, I’d spent a futile fortnight waiting to move to the south-east. It was alright for Hen: he was fully established in the field, whereas my base was merely temporary. I was finding it all rather frustrating. Hen’s silence was utterly unfathomable, yet there was nothing to be gained from falling out with him. So I decided for the moment simply to let the matter lie.
    The following morning I awoke early and peered out of my doorway. The sun had barely risen, but to my surprise I spotted Hen patrolling the south-east corner of the field. He hardly ever strayed from his western redoubt, so I wondered what could have tempted him so far. Initially I assumed he was taking a stroll by the river, and that he’d roamed a little further than he intended. After a while, however, I noticed he was inspecting the ground beneath his feet. All at once his purpose became clear: he was studying the impression in the grass. He walked round and round it, bobbing down now and again to get a closer look, and appeared totally preoccupied. For several minutes I observed him with interest, then abruptly he turned and came striding back towards the west. I closed my doorway, and reflected on what I’d seen. The explanation for Hen’s early-morning foray now seemed obvious. His claim to be the first in the field was directly undermined by the impression in the grass; accordingly, the sooner it faded from sight the better. I knew for a fact that it hadn’t faded, not properly, and so for the present he was destined to be disappointed. I had no idea, of course, if he’d ever laid eyes on the octagonal tent; perhaps he only had a mental picture, just as I did. What was certain was that we had a common desire: for different reasons, both of us wanted all traces of the other tent erased for good; then, maybe, normal life could be resumed.
    Judging by Hen’s behaviour, he was rapidly running out of patience. The next afternoon he made yet another trip to the south-east. This time he approached his objective from an oblique angle. After a long excursion he went ambling down the field from the north, paused casually to inspect the ground, then continued on his way. He must have known that I could see his every move, and plainly he was trying to disguise his actions. He needn’t have bothered really, but I had no wish to cause an upset so I willingly played along with the pretence: when next we spoke I carefully avoided any reference to his jaunts in the south-east.
    In any case, I had a feeling that the question of the other tent would resolve itself naturally in due course. The weather continued to improve, and in consequence the grass was thriving. My own tent was already nestling in a soft bed of greenery which thickened visibly by the day, and it was the same story across the whole field. A similar notion must have occurred to Hen. As the grass grew his restlessness diminished in proportion until, at last, he ceased his wanderings. Hen’s precious claim was finally safe from scrutiny. Now it was my turn to be impatient. Another slothful week had gone by, and inertia was beginning to set in. Tomorrow, I decided, I would definitely make my move.
    Unusually for me, I didn’t sleep well that night. Possibly it was the humid conditions keeping me awake, but more likely it was the jumbled dreams which always come with upheaval. Either way, I drifted in and out of my slumbers until the small hours; then, sometime around dawn, I became aware of men’s voices passing close by my tent. They were fairly indistinct at first, but slowly my ears attuned, and I recognized Hen’s formal tones.
    ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I am called Hen, and I have a tent in the west.’
    ‘Been here long?’ enquired a second voice. It was deep and resonant.
    ‘Quite a while,’ said