Gerulf listened in awe as his obsession spoke.

Amalasuntha! A queen's name and a queen she is... MY queen. MY Amalasuntha.

He watched, forlorn, as the wondrous woman turned away to resume his duties. Already his chest was leaden at her loss, his countenance a study in dejection. How long would it take before he could claim her as his own?

And then... a miracle!

She shrieked.

She beat him about the head and body with a loaf of bread, then walked off to the kitchen.

The Frisian husbandman smiled broadly.

What a muscular arm she has. What a strong crusted bread -- BREAD -- she makes. She will make an excellent mate.

Her smile and her wink as she vanished into the kitchen nearly brought him to his knees, but he managed to rise from his table. His step was light, his heart was full, and life was good.

At the door to the kitchen he turned to the room, his face beaming, his brains in his boots. He spread his arms wide and shouted to the gods.

She loves me!