Now when his hunger was somewhat assuaged, Roger turned and looked where Beltane lay.
"My master sleepeth?" said he, his voice grown gentle.
"Nay, Roger, I lie and wait thy news," spake Beltane, his eyes yet closed.
"Why then, 'tis war, master—battle and siege. The country is up as far as Winisfarne. Black Ivo lieth at Barham Broom with a great company—I have seen their tents and pavilions like a town, and yet they come, for Ivo hath summoned all his powers to march against Thrasfordham. 'Twixt here and Pentavalon city, folk do say the roads be a-throng with bows and lances—lords and barons, knights and esquires, their pennons flutter everywhere."
"'Tis well!" sighed Beltane.
"Well, master—nay, how mean you?"
"That being at Barham Broom, they cannot be otherwhere, Roger. Saw you
Pertolepe's banner among all these?"
"Aye, master; they have set up his pavilion beside the Duke's."
"Tell me now," said Beltane, coming to his elbow, "how many men should be left within Garthlaxton for garrison, think you?"
"An hundred, belike!" said Walkyn.