Next to the king, Isolde and I sat at the highest level of the stands. The queen mirrored the morning blaze as it climbed, golden glow hitting human form embellished in a gold on gray brocade bliaut.
After the Commencement, the grand charge rang out from the herald’s mouth.
“Tintagel!” Tristan shouted.
He moved forward with the other knights as though one arm. After a loud clash of armor at the impact of the two lines, hooves thundering and trumpets sounding, the men traveled outward beyond the trees. All we could see was a glint here and there where the sun hit the arms and helmets of knights, then nothing. The herald, balanced atop a tall bank of earth, tried to comment on the action nonetheless, becoming creative about what he thought he saw, as though the angle at which the grass blades blew gave us any indication of how the fighting proceeded.
The ladies down below were gossiping about who might win and who they admired. Their voices wore a cagey glimmer. But Tristan carried with him linen Isolde had embroidered in green and buttercup, and if there was mention of Tristan, Isolde and I ignored it.
Dazzled by the glare and a state of anticipation, my hands fidgeted to be busy. I took out my needlework, squinting, and time passed less slowly.