The sky was pitchy dark. The minster roofs, lying northeast, were utterly invisible against the blackness.
“We may at least save some who escape out,” said Hereward. “March on quickly to the left, under the hill to the plough-field.”
They did so.
“Lie down, men. There are the French, close on our right. Down among the bushes.”
And they heard the heavy tramp of men within a quarter of a mile.
“Cover the mare’s eyes, and hold her mouth, lest she neigh,” said Winter.
Hereward and Torfrida lay side by side upon the heath. She was shivering with cold and horror. He laid his cloak over her; put his arm round her.
“Your stars did not foretell you this, Torfrida.” He spoke not bitterly, but in utter sadness.
She burst into an agony of weeping.
“My stars at least foretold me nothing but woe, since first I saw your face.”