"They
knocked me on the head with a spear-butt and left me for dead. When I got my
senses again, I found my way to the nuns of St. Mildred's; and they gave me
food, and I rode hither."
"It is the Troll's luck! I--yet, go on. The day will come! Did they further
harm within the castle? Have you women-kin?"
Randalin hesitated. Would it not be safer if she could deny altogether the
existence of a daughter of Frode? But no, that was not possible, in the face
of what Norman might reveal. She began very, very carefully: "It happened that
my mother died before we came to Avalcomb; and my father had but one daughter.
She was called Randalin. I did not see what became of her, for I was outside;
but I think that she is dead. A--her thrall-woman told me that Leofwinesson
pursued her to a chamber in the wall. And and because she could not escape
from him--she--she threw herself from the window, and the stones below caused
her death."
The King's hands clenched convulsively. "It is like them!" he muttered. "It
has happened as I supposed. If the master be like his men, I ask you in what
their God is to be preferred to ours? Have no fear but that I will avenge your
kinswoman. Those of her own blood-ties could do no more. And Frode also. You
need not wait long for me when the day comes; the last hair of the otter-skin
shall be covered, though I take from them the Ring itself.
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