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The Tournament of Champions

The castle of Tintagel was hosting the Tournament of Champions, a challenging three-day event where ten winners would earn the prestigious distinction of becoming Knights of the Round Table for Arthur Pendragon, the High King of Britain.

Nearly three hundred candidates from the entire kingdom of Cornwall had arrived at the castle for the thrilling competition, which was set to begin today.

Along one side of the castle grounds, approximately one hundred tents had been pitched to provide housing for the competing warriors, who were now rushing about, donning their chain mail armor, preparing for today’s joust. The sizzling aroma of sausages roasting over the cooks’ campfires and the tang of sweat filled the air.

Horses neighed as grooms saddled them, leading the first group of coursers to the fields where the event would take place.

Although many privileged guests enjoyed the luxury of lodging within the castle itself, additional tents had been set up along the opposite side of the field for the hundreds of royal spectators who planned to stay for the duration of the tournament.

Brightly colored banners of various noble houses fluttered in the crisp spring breeze.

Fluffy clouds scattered across the bright blue sky as jubilant lords and ladies filled the grandstands, the preferred viewing granted to the highest ranks of nobility.

The thrum of excitement rippled through the crowd.

Today’s joust, the Running of the Rings , would take place on two fields, with each contestant allotted two runs.

Atop the courser provided by the masters of horse, each knight would charge at a fixed, wooden target containing three circles in its center.

A lance striking the outer ring would score one point, with three for the inner ring and five for the center circle.

Since every candidate would have two jousting runs, the maximum possible score was ten points.

Any competitor thrown from his horse would be disqualified and eliminated from the tournament; the top one hundred of the highest-scoring candidates would advance to the second day’s archery event, to be held tomorrow.

The competitors had been divided into groups of ten, with half competing on each field. Tristan, Vaughan, and Connor had arrived at the preparation area together. The first two groups had already run, with several contestants eliminated. Connor was up next.

A rush of adrenaline hit Tristan as he watched his friend settle into the saddle and position his lance, preparing to charge.

The bright red flag dropped, and the courser flew towards the target, clumps of mud churned up as thundering hooves pummeled the grassy field.

His lance secured to his body, his horse speeding towards the target, Connor hit the outer ring on his first run, scoring one point.

He rode back to the starting position where the master of horse steadied his mount, awaiting the next drop of the flag.

Under his breath, Tristan whispered a fervent prayer to the Goddess to grant his friend better luck.

The flag dropped again. Connor surged towards the target, gaining speed and momentum, his enormous lance held tight against his body. The earth shook under the courser’s pounding hooves.

This time, Connor struck the inner circle. Tristan heaved a sigh of relief. Four points. He prayed it would be enough.

Tristan was next. The stable hand approached him, leading the courser which he would ride. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins as he climbed into the saddle and adjusted his helmet.

His heart raced; power surged through him as the groom led his horse to the starting position to await the signal of the judge’s flag. He spotted Vaughan, who would be competing in the next group, standing in the crowd to cheer him on. Vaughan flashed him a hearty grin.

The flag dropped, and Tristan flew like an arrow, his thighs gripping the horse’s powerful flanks as he bolted down the field towards the triple circle of rings.

Gripping his lance tightly with his arm and shoulder, preparing to pummel the target, his courser suddenly reared—as if in pain—nearly throwing Tristan from the saddle.

Although he recovered quickly, and managed to stay on his horse, he missed the target entirely.

Fear clenched his stomach in a tight fist.

He returned to the starting position to prepare for his second run.

His mouth was parched, his body quivering with adrenaline and fury.

If he did not hit the inner circle on this run, he would be eliminated from the competition.

That couldn’t happen. He’d promised his uncle Marke that he would qualify.

He remembered the ring his uncle had given him.

Perhaps it was superstition, but Tristan felt compelled to gaze into the eye of the sea raven.

Sliding his hand out of the protective metal gauntlet, he quickly kissed the blue topaz stone for good luck.

Bolstered now with courage, he slipped his hand back into the glove, gripped his lance, and leaned forward in the saddle. His heart thumped wildly in his chest.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the vibrant flash of color as the flag dropped.

Like a furious gale of wind, he blew off the starting post, storming at the target with the force of a tempest. He could feel his courser’s strength and speed, swift and sure, as he focused his entire being on the center of the target.

The impact of his lance striking the center ring reverberated through his bones. The thrill of victory shivered up his spine.

Five points. Pray the Goddess it would be enough.

Connor threw an arm around his shoulder, a huge grin plastered across his face, as he congratulated Tristan. The two friends watched from the sidelines as Vaughan executed two stellar runs, hitting the inner circle each time, for a total score of six points.

The trio headed back to their shared tent, where pages helped them remove and store their armor.

Grooms watered the horses and returned the magnificent animals to Tintagel’s royal stables.

The cooks had something delicious roasting over the fire, and Tristan’s stomach growled in response.

I’m heading there next, he decided, ravenous after the morning’s exertion.

He removed his sweaty tunic and dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. As he shook out his hair, droplets splattered from his dark brown locks. Connor chuckled from the stump where he was seated, picking the mud from his boots with the tip of his knife.

Vaughan grinned as he approached, a goblet of ale in each hand. Tristan accepted the offered mug and gulped greedily, quenching his thirst. The adrenaline from the joust had parched his throat, and the ale slid down smoothly.

“I saw Indulf startle your horse in the first run.”

Vaughan took a large gulp from his goblet, wiped the froth with his sleeve, and locked eyes with Tristan.

“He blew a stone from some sort of pipe. It struck your horse’s rump, and that’s why he reared. Keep your eyes on him, Tristan. He has no honor. He cheats. I hope one of us goes up against him in the battle of swords. I, for one, would love to wipe that sodden smirk off his bloody face.”

Tristan kicked the dirt in disgust. He’d very nearly been disqualified by Indulf’s deceit.

A loud commotion drew his attention. Hearty shouts echoed across the tents.

Near the cooks’ campsite, competitors were gathering around a tree to see the list of names of those who had qualified for the second day of the tournament.

Candidates were shoving each other, trying to read the list. Others celebrated with cheers and mugs of ale.

Some were slinking away, their faces grim in obvious defeat.

Connor, who had run ahead to see the list, came bounding back to join Tristan and Vaughan. His joyous grin stretched from ear to ear.

“We made it! All three of us! The Goddess be praised!”

The trio of knights clapped each other on the backs, exuberant in victory, thrilled for tomorrow’s archery event.

The enticing aromas emanating from the cooks’ fire were too tempting for Tristan to resist.

“Come on, let’s grab something to eat. I’m starved!”

The roast boar was salty and sweet, dripping with honey. Tristan devoured the baked beans and roasted corn, soaking up every drop on his plate with his loaf of crusty fresh bread, courtesy of the castle kitchens. The yeasty flavor melted in his mouth, the delightful taste lingering on his palate.

Now that his stomach was full, and he’d rested a bit with Vaughan and Connor, the thought of tomorrow’s archery competition brought a renewed rush of adrenaline.

“We have a couple hours before dark,” he said to his two friends, lazing in the grass a few feet from the campfire. “We can shoot a few arrows to practice for tomorrow. Sound good?”

Connor and Vaughan exchanged glances. Vaughan nodded and stood, stretching his back by reaching his arms high over his head.

The three friends headed back to the tent to retrieve their bowstrings and quivers of arrows, spending the rest of the afternoon in the designated area where targets had been set up for practice.

Later that evening, Tristan sat near the campfire with Vaughan and Connor, eating the roast venison and vegetable stew that the cooks had prepared.

He took a hearty pull from his goblet of ale, gazing into the fire as he listened to descriptions of the day’s jousts, sharing the excitement of qualifying for tomorrow’s event.