Gerulf looked at the kitchen knife still quivering in the wooden bench. Then he looked at Widimir who was sheepishly trying to assume an air of nonchalance. Which, thought, Gerulf, was a mite hard to do if you had a woman like Ingvoldr in your lap.

Ing, if you don't disarm your Goth pretty soon now none of us will make it to morning!

Familial duties now taken care of, the huge husbandman turned his attention to the woman who had come from the kitchen. Once again his mind was filled with husbandmanly thoughts.

By the Gods, she's everything a man could want.

He watched as she served the boisterous crowd with competence and good cheer. She moved like Freyja herself, pouring here, cutting a slice of bread --BREAD -- there.

Her voice -- it's like the singing of nightengales. Her hair -- more glorious than the sunrise. Her body -- ripe and filled with promise of tender deeds.

The Frisian's chest filled with air and he composed himself as best he could in spite of the hammer pounding in his chest. As the fair woman at last bent over him with a freshly baked loaf of bread -- BREAD -- and a radiant smile, he touched her hand reverently, putting all his earnestness, nay, his very heart, into his eyes.

Would you care to have a drink with me? And several children?