A horn had sounded. It moaned low and faint through the mist. It came once. Then twice. Then a third time. “Enemy Attacking,” muttered Bellamus. Lord Northwic was on his feet at once, barking orders at his servants who now scurried out of the pavilion to fetch his armour, saddle his coursers, find out how far away and in what direction the enemy was, and half a dozen things besides.
