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The belt hung from a hook in the doorway of a tent, weighed down by a bulging leather pouch. Gold coins shone at the top where the tie had loosened – an open invitation to the light-fingered.

The boy’s gaze alighted on it like a bird. He paused amidst the busy traffic on the main road into Heartwood, stepping out of the way of the carts and huge battle steeds that threatened to trample him.

He glanced around to make sure no one was looking and sidled over. A blue Wulfengar banner flew from the top of the tent, and he pulled a face at it as he reached out to take the pouch.

A large, strong hand clamped on his shoulder, and he jumped in fright. The hand belonged to a sturdy Wulfengar lord, his bristling face dark as thunderclouds.

“Laxonian.” The Wulfian sneered, and he spat on the page’s red tabard. “I might have guessed.”

He raised his right hand to strike the young lad. The page twisted, however, and wrenched himself away from the knight’s grip. Like an arrow, he sped off into the crowd. For a moment, he thought the Wulfian would let him go, but then shouts and curses echoed behind him, and he realised the knight was hot on his trail.

He risked a glance over his shoulder, and fear slashed through him like a blade at the sight of the knight’s bulky form barging through the crowds of people towards him. He picked up his pace, but without warning flew straight into a mail-clad knight, solid and firm as a stone wall.

“What’s the hurry, lad?” The knight’s words tailed off as the Wulfian appeared through the throng.

“He was going to steal my money pouch!” the Wulfian yelled, coming to a halt in front of them.

The page looked up at the knight he had barged into. The knight wore a red tabard over his mail which marked him as a Laxonian, as did his tall stature, his short beard and the light brown hair swept back from his open, honest face. The silver stag embroidered on the tabard marked him as Chonrad, Lord of Barle: a knight whose reputation for fairness and justice was renowned throughout the Seven Lands of Laxony.

“My Lord Bertwald, I think there has been some confusion.” Chonrad pushed the page behind him. “This is my lad – I sent him to retrieve a belt from my tent and he must have mistaken it for yours.”

Bertwald narrowed his eyes. “You are already wearing a belt.”

“Yes,” Chonrad said easily, “but the other one has my money pouch on it, and I wanted to purchase some armour from the blacksmith.”

“My tent flies a blue pennant,” Bertwald snapped. “Is your boy so stupid he cannot tell Laxonian from Wulfian?”

“He is somewhat simple.” Chonrad trod on the page’s foot when he opened his mouth to protest. “Please forgive his foolishness. And let me fetch you an ale from the drinks tent to compensate for your inconvenience.”

Bertwald stepped closer to them. The page shrank away, shuddering at the sight of the knight’s greasy beard flecked with food. “I have no intention of partaking of any beverage with a Laxonian.” Bertwald’s voice was filled with menace. “Nor is this your lad. Do not think you can make a fool out of me, Barle.”

“I do not need to,” Chonrad said just as quietly. “You are managing well enough on your own.”

Bertwald bared his teeth, but glanced up as another knight appeared at Chonrad’s shoulder. The page turned to see a towering hulk of a man that dwarfed even the tall Laxonian. By the way he moved in front of the knight, the page decided the man must be his bodyguard.

Bertwald gave a snort. “Peace between our two countries? It is a ridiculous notion. These talks will not last the day.”

With that, he turned and marched off back to his tent, knocking people askew as he barged through the crowd.

The page breathed a sigh of relief. Then his heart hammered as Chonrad turned to face him, hands on hips. “Were you trying to steal the money?” he asked in his deep, mellow voice.

“Yes, my lord.” The page gulped. Would the bodyguard beat him? He would barely be able to crawl to his bed if that were the case.

Chonrad nodded. “Well, at least your honesty does you credit. Whom do you serve?”

“L-Lord Amerle,” stuttered the page.

“Then you are very far from home.” Chonrad sighed. “I understand your motivation, but believe me – you do not want to start an incident with Wulfengar today, of all days.”

“No, my lord,” the page said.

“Go back to your master before he wonders where you are.”

“Yes, my lord.” The lad’s heart lifted as he realised he was not to be beaten.

“And no more stealing.”

“Yes, my lord.” The page turned to run and then let out a yelp as the leather boot of the bodyguard met his soft behind. He did not stop, however, but slipped quickly into the crowd. He knew when he had been let off lightly.

As he ran, he touched the oak leaf pendant hanging around his neck and thanked the Arbor that Lord Barle had been there to save his life.