It was the first great mustering Elsbeth had ever seen, rows of silk-topped tents, banners snapping in the wind, mailed knights moving like figures from a church mural brought to life. The levy camp lay close enough to smell the polish on armor and the smoke of better fires. She stared too much and lost her focus, eyes tracking a noble laughing with his retinue, a knight passing with gilded spurs—missed the rope entirely, and went sprawling headlong through a half-open tent flaps that belonged to a knight.

“I—by the saints—I’m so sorry,” she blurted, scrambling to her knees, cheeks burning as she tried to find a reasonable explaination to how a levy soldier managed to fall into the tent.