Gerulf spewed a great stream of mead from his mouth as he listened to Ingvoldr's retort.

Red-faced, tears in his eyes from mirth, the hulking Frisian was hard put to restrain himself.

Take care, Widimir, the lass likes to ride astride. You don't want her applying a touch of the lash!

He wiped the mead from his clothes and took another healthy pull at the horn before talking with the Goth again.

Ingvoldr and Frøydis are the finest horsebreeders and handlers in the kingdom, lad.

He winked at Widimir, who had recovered from his shock rather quickly. Lowering his voice only slightly, Gerulf grinned at the Goth.

Evidently she thinks you'll make a fine mount!

Still laughing, the farmer turned to the Dane.

Not a bad throw for a small toy, Northman.

He looked at Ingvoldr and winked again, a broad smile creasing his face.

By the way, Northman, it's no wonder the Friesian army turned you down. We require that your parents be married to each other!