Chapter Four

The man was a tree…

Angela tried to calm her erratic breathing…such an odd reaction to a man who should be unattractive to her. It must be the heat, worry over her deal with Darrell Nolan, and this bizarre scenario taking place on one of his sets. It was not that she was attracted to this man. Definitely not.

Such a blatant display of pushiness—bypassing the usual audition route to garner attention for himself. How arrogant! How egotistical! How like an actor!

He reminded her of her ex-husband. The Creep had always liked to be the center of attention, demanding a better table when they ate out, insisting on Rodeo Drive labels for his "Hollywood" wardrobe. Being naturally reticent, Angela cringed even now in memory.

This man was tall…at least six-foot-five. She was not short, being five-foot-seven, but standing before him was like standing before a tree. Even his arms and legs, which were exposed by the belted leather tunic he wore, resembled tree limbs. And he was a big man in bulk, too—probably two hundred and fifty pounds—with lean muscles everywhere.

Angela had never been a fan of muscle men…as evidenced by the fact that she'd donated the Creep's Nautilus equipment to Goodwill the moment he moved out. The act had been symbolic of her disdain for the Creep's obsession with physical fitness.

Back to the man before her. His light brown hair had sun-bleached streaks and thin, intricate braids hanging on either side of his face, which were intertwined with amber beads. Thick golden lashes framed whiskey-colored eyes. He wore ornately etched, wide silver bracelets on his upper arms. A gold brooch of writhing dragons was attached to a short shoulder mantle. God spare me from a man with a passion for jewelry. The only thing missing is the Las Vegas—style gold chains. Oops! There is a chain there…one holding a gold pendant. Jeesh!

And he carried a sword, for heaven's sake. How juvenile! Or rather, how like a man with his macho toys! The Creep had insisted on a loaded revolver in their bedside nightstand…even though they lived on the fourteenth floor of a high-security apartment building.

Worst of all was the numbers of children surrounding him, ranging from age sixteen or so to a toddler of little more than a year. And one of the little boys appeared to be lame. If all of them were his children, as he had proclaimed in his strange accent, then shame on him. Angela was not a rabid feminist, like her cousin Carmen, but some people just overpopulated the planet like rabbits, uncaring of the children's welfare or that of the environment. A man who felt the need to reproduce himself nine times over was a pig, pure and simple, in her opinion.

"Uh-oh, Father," the teenage boy said with a hoot of laughter. "Methinks your destiny is frowning at you. Not a good sign. Best you pull out some of that far-famed expertise."

"Leave off, son," the big man replied in a deep, deep voice. The whole time he continued to stare at her in the most disarming manner. It was rude, actually.

Noticing the direction of the Viking's gaze, Darrell motioned her forward. Reluctantly she stepped up to the tree. That was the only way she could describe how he looked and felt next to her.

"Angela, I'd like to introduce you to Magnus Ericsson."

"Angel? You are an angel?" The tree asked with a mixture of horror and glee.

"No, I'm not an angel. And don't you dare call me that. ‘Angel baby' won't work either. Believe me, ‘angel' as a pickup line is not cool."

"Huh?" the tree said.

"The name is Angela."

"Oh."

Oh, God! Dumb as a…a…tree .

"Magnus is going to be the new star of The Vikings . I hope," Darrell interjected.

"She is an angel who does not want to be called an angel, and you want me to be a star. Are you sure I am not dead?"

Really, this language-miscommunication game of his was getting tired already.

"And Magnus, this is Angela Abruzzi, a Hollywood realtor and possible business partner of mine."

Angela liked that last part, and she extended her hand toward the tree. No need to be impolite. "How do you do?"

At first he just stared at her hand. Then, seeming to come to some sudden comprehension, he took her hand in his huge one and squeezed tightly as if he would not ever let her go.

"How do you do?" she repeated.

"I do fine," he answered in his gruff, accented voice. Then he smiled at her…a slow, purely male smile that was so sexy she felt her knees begin to buckle. Luckily he was still holding her hand, or she might have fallen. It must be hormones , she thought. How else to explain her lust-laden reaction to a man she didn't even like? Maybe I'm turning into a bimbo…a desperate single woman dying for the first man I meet . "I do not suppose that you live on a farm, do you?"

A farm? Where did that come from? "No, I live in a condo in Century City. Do you live on a farm?"

He nodded. "Dost bother you?"

"Dost…does what bother me?"

"That I am a farmer. Well, betimes I am a warrior, too, but mostly I am a simple farmer." The brute was still holding on to her hand.

I am beginning to think there is nothing simple about you, Mr. Tree . She was still fluttering inside at his mere touch. Bimbo, bimbo, bimbo. Next I'll be humming the theme song of "Sex and the City." Is there a theme song? Aaarrgh! She cocked her head in confusion. "Why should your being a farmer bother me?" She tugged on her hand, but he wouldn't release it.

The little girl in his other arm reached out a hand to her, too, imitating her father's action, and said cheerily, "Goo." The tree finally released Angela's hand.

Angela felt a peculiar distress at that loss of contact, but then she smiled at the sweet thing and shook her tiny hand. "How do you do, munchkin? Aren't you the prettiest thing?"

"Goo!" the toddler said, flashing her a drooly grin.

"Her name is Lida," Magnus pointed out. "Not Munch-Kin."

Angela looked at the big man to see if he thought she had seriously believed the baby's name was Munchkin. He had. Holy moley, he was a good actor.

"And these are my other children," the tree said. Starting with the oldest, he pointed and called out their names: "Torolf, Kirsten, Dagny, Storvald, Njal, Jogeir, Hamr, and Kolbein." The last one, about three years old, was holding on to the man's thigh as if he would never let go.

"You have nine children?" she asked with amazement.

"Actually I have eleven living children. Two of them stayed behind in the Norselands. And two of them passed on at a young age…Ivan drowned and Ilsa died soon after birth."

"Thirteen children!" She had to force her slack jaw shut. Is he for real? No, of course not. He is an actor. This is all a script to him…make-believe .

"I do not think she is impressed," the teenage boy said to his father. "Mayhap you should tell her of your expertise ."

She had no idea what response the tree gave, be cause Darrell called her aside, telling the big guy that they would be right back and not to move.

"Angela, I need your help with The Viking ," Darrell said right off.

"Me?" she squeaked out.

He nodded quickly. "He's perfect for the part, but I can't let the press get a whiff of him till my lawyers release me from the contract with Dirk."

And, in Angela's opinion, to make sure that Magnus didn't know how desperate Darrell was and demand more money for the part the tree so clearly wanted. "So? What has this to do with me?"

"Take him and his brood home with you," he said bluntly.

At first she was shocked that he would suggest such a thing. Shock soon turned to indignation. "No! Absolutely not!"

"It would only be for a day or two. A week at the most."

"Are you crazy? I live in a two-bedroom high-rise. That guy's head would touch the ceiling in my place, and with eleven people we would be stepping on each other. No way!"

"How about the vineyard up in Sonoma? The Blue Dragon? You know, the one you think is worth five hundred thou for a one-week movie shoot?" He said the last in a subtly threatening tone.

"Are you suggesting that unless I help you out with this, the deal is off?" She had to fist her hands tightly to keep from socking the jerk a good one.

"No, what I'm suggesting is that, if you do this, I will be much more likely to agree to your terms."

She folded her arms over her chest and tapped one high-heeled shoe with indignation. The nerve of the louse!

"Come on, Angela. You said your grandmother has a big old house at the Blue Dragon. Surely it's big enough for all these kids. And it would only be for a few days."

Her shoulders slumped in surrender. Really, she had no choice. Darrell might not know it, but the Blue Dragon was in dire straits, money-wise. Without his cash, there might not be a vineyard much longer.

She looked at Darrell; then she looked at the Viking, who still stared at her with an intensity bordering on hunger—Criminey, she couldn't remember any man ever looking at her with hunger—then she looked back at Darrell again.

"My price just went up. Seven hundred thousand."

"Agreed."

His quick response made her think she should have asked for more. "My grandmother is going to kill me," she said.

When they walked back to the group and informed Magnus of their decision, he just nodded, as if his going with her had been a given all along.

Soon after, they all moved toward a studio van that Angela was going to have to use. Her BMW would never hold the bunch of them, and Magnus claimed not to be able to drive a car.

"You remind me of someone," he said.

"Oh, great! The oldest line in the book! Let's get one thing straight from the get-go: no hanky-panky."

"Hank-what?"

"Never mind."

"Do you happen to know an old lady with white hair and prayer beads? And what is a no-veen-ah anyway?" the tree asked her all of a sudden.

Angela's heart skipped a beat and she stumbled. When she righted herself, with his hand under her elbow, she examined him in a new light.

Something strange was going on here.

No place like home (wherever that is…)

They were all crammed into a very large horseless cart, known as a van, and were speeding down a free-road…or, rather, a free-way. Magnus assumed that was a thoroughfare with no toll. But he did not want to ask. His stomach was too queasy from the harrowing experience of traveling faster than a speeding arrow. Other horseless vehicles were driving by them at even more excessive speeds. Angela claimed to be going only forty miles per hour, as if he would be comforted by that fact.

As things turned out, they were not going to be able to go to the Blue Dragon place right away. That didn't bother Magnus all that much. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of taking his children to a dragon's lair anyhow…though Hamr had practically wept with disappointment. It was his lifelong wish, or so he had proclaimed loudly, to kill a dragon.

Storvald and Njal were sitting with their filthy hands folded in their laps, at his orders. The pair had crawled under the van while it was still standing still, looking for a hidden horse, before he'd been able to pull them out of harm's way. They now resembled ragpicker's children, not the sons of a Norse noble.

Angela had just stared with bewilderment at the lot of them. He was confused himself. How could he blame her?

When Angela had spoken to her work master a short time ago on a little black box called a tell-of-own, Master Blackman had reminded her that a big buyer coming in from some other country required her personal attention. This buyer, known as a custom-her, represented very large amounts of payment to her employer, who had to be out of town himself on a vay-kay-shun, which meant a time to have fun. How odd that people here had to schedule a special time just for having fun!

In any case, Angela continued to be distraught at the news that she could not take them away from the city immediately, but he assured her he could handle the close accommodations of her home. After all, he'd been living on a longship with all of his children, and more people besides, for weeks now. Surely it would be no tighter than that. "Besides, I need more time to hone my sword if I am going to have to kill a blue dragon," he told her.

"Have you killed any dragons before, Rambo?" she'd asked him with one arched eyebrow.

"Nay, but how much harder can it be than killing a wild boar, or an angry polar bear? Some of the black bears in the Rus lands are as big as dragons, I warrant."

She gave him another of her disbelieving looks, which he was becoming accustomed to.

"I am loath to remind you…my name is Magnus, not Ram-bow." The wench might be a bit half-witted, he feared, to have such a poor memory for important matters…like the name of her destiny.

"Whatever."

That was a favored word in this country, he noticed. People used it whenever they had lost an argument. It was a handy word he would have to recall when he got home to the Norselands. He knew just how the word would come in handy.

Like when one of his comrades taunted him, "That is the seventh game of hnefatafl you have lost, Magnus."

"Whatever."

Or a woman chided him: "Go clean out the midden, Magnus."

"Whatever."

Or numerous people commented, "Thirteen children, Magnus!"

"Whatever."

At the time of this mental conversation with himself, he'd had to smile at his own wit, which had caused Angela to look askance at him.

Whatever .

So now they were all strapped into the van, with Lida fast asleep in her very own seat, despite the din created by eight of his other children talking at once inside a confined room the size of a privy…which was not such a far-fetched comparison, considering the stench from Lida's still-unchanged nappy. Despite the size of this horseless cart, he and Torolf had to sit with their heads touching the roof and their knees practically touching their chins. Mayhap they did not have such tall men in this country, but then Norsemen were known for their great height…and good looks. He was hoping the latter would weigh in his favor with his newfound destiny.

"Will your husband not object to your bringing us back to his keep?" he asked, wanting to make sure she was an unmarried lady.

Despite her continuing scowl, his hopes were fulfilled when she answered. "I have no husband, and the keep is mine, thank you very much."

Well, that is a relief . Her bad disposition he could handle. A husband would have been much more difficult.

"Stop smiling," she ordered.

He winked at her.

"And no winks, either. Look, I don't mean to be…well, mean, but get this through your head: I…am…not…interested."

"In what?"

"You. Jeesh!"

"I like the way your face gets all flushed when you are excited."

"Not excited. Angry."

"I like the way the sun brings out the silver highlights in your beautiful silken black hair."

"Silver highlights!" she exclaimed. "Oh, my God! I must be getting some gray hairs."

He laughed. "I like your sense of humor."

"Give it up, Magnus."

"Is there naught you like about me?"

"Pathetic! Our faeir is pathetic," he heard Torolf mutter behind him.

Angela thought for a while…too long a while, actually. Then she answered, "I like your big ears."

Yes, he liked the woman's sense of humor. Magnus leaned back in his seat as best he could, well satisfied with his progress thus far. His life was definitely taking a turn for the better.

His previously chattering children went suddenly silent as they gazed out the windows at the passing marvels of this new land. Not only were there horseless vehicles racing across the ground, but there were vehicles speeding through the skies, as well. Magnus still wasn't sure if they had landed in the otherworld or just some new land. For his children's sake, he was trying to maintain a facade of calm, but inside he was roiling with anxiety.

"I guess we'd better stop at the Super Wal-Mart and get some diapers for the baby," Angela said to him.

"By Thor, woman, you are a wonder. You can drive a horseless vehicle and talk at the same time." ‘Twas best to compliment women on occasion to smooth their ruffled feathers. That was his philosophy, leastways.

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Save your Viking act for Darrell. I told you…I'm not interested."

"Why are you so angry with me?"

"Damn, I have no time for this crap. I need to stay on good terms with Darrell because…well, just because. And you showing up like that put me in an untenable situation. Where do you live anyway? Can't I just drop you off there?"

"I already told you—or rather Dare-All—I live in the Norselands. And by the by, coarse words ill suit you, m'lady."

"What coarse words?"

"Damn and crap."

"Give me a break."

"Huh?"

She flung a hand out in disgust.

There was a clicking noise under the wheel she was steering, and they began to veer to the right into a very large open area containing many, many other horseless vehicles of all shapes and colors. "Where are we?"

"Super Wal-Mart."

He rolled the words around in his head and asked, "Mart…is that like a market?"

"Sort of," she said with a shrug as she pulled her vehicle between two white lines.

Finally, something he could understand. He had gone to markets in many a trading town. "Is this where we will buy cloth for Lida's nappies?"

"We can buy disposable diapers here."

"What does disposable mean?"

"It means throwaway."

He gasped. "You cannot mean that you throw the dirty linens in the midden after every use? Surely you do not practice such waste in this country."

"I have a suggestion, Magnus. Let's not talk."

The new World's Greatest Marvel: Wall-Market…

A short time later they were in the market building, a structure so large that hundreds of people were able to bustle about its numerous aisles.

Angela had tried to talk him into staying inside the van and waiting for her, but he had refused adamantly. There was no way he was letting her out of his sight, especially in light of her rampant hostility. She did not recognize yet that she was his destiny. He needed more time to convince her.

Angela was steering a metal cart with Lida strapped into a special baby seat. He was steering a second cart with Hamr sitting in the body of the cart, his arms wrapped around his bent knees, scowling fiercely at him. Torolf had an equally scowling Njal in his cart. Kirsten pushed Kolbein and Jogeir. Storvald and Dagny were permitted to walk on their own, with strict orders to stay next to the carts.

"First things first," Angela said once they had all passed the wall-market greeter, who shook each and every one of their hands—something Magnus now recognized as a gesture of greeting in this country. "We've got to change this baby before they have to fumigate the store."

As she led their entourage of carts skillfully through the aisles—a difficult job when his children kept ooh ing and aah ing over every blessed thing they saw.

"Have you had much experience with babies?" he inquired casually. "Do you have any of your own?"

She laughed and grabbed a box off one of the shelves. It was a toddler-size box of Pampers. Apparently Lida was a toddler. "No, I've never had a child of my own, but one of my officemates brings her little girl into the office sometimes. Believe me, changing a diaper requires no particular talent." Next she put a package of wet cloths in the cart, along with a sweetly scented powder made especially for babies. Kirsten and Dagny were equally fascinated by the adjoining shelves, where products were sold that specifically handled the problem of what to do about a female's monthly flux…as if a rag would not suffice. Kolbein was exclaiming over something called "soap on a rope."

Then Angela steered them all toward a "ladies room," where females went to relieve themselves. Like a privy it was, but indoors. More like a garderobe, he supposed. There was a "men's room," too. Amazing, really, that people had to have such facilities even when they were marketing.

"Stay right there," Angela ordered, pointing a finger first at him, then at each of his children in turn. "Anyone moves and I'm out of here. You're on your own."

M'lady, if you knew what it does to me when you talk fiercely like that, you would be shocked. Bloody hell, it shocks me . "Whatever you say, sweetling," he agreed, trying to be pleasant in the face of her…unpleasantness.

All he got for his pleasantness was a scowl.

"You really need to work on your expertise, Father," Torolf said.

"I want one of those mirrors we passed, Father. And a comb," Kirsten said. "No one told me my hair was such a tangle."

"That is all you need, daughter, more boosts to your vanity."

"I want a bottle of bubbles for my bath, Father. ‘Lavender Garden,'" Dagny said.

"You will attract every bee in sight."

"I want some new carving knives, Father," Storvald said.

"Better that you get your first sword and start practicing to be a warrior."

"I want a bye-sigh-call," Jogeir said. "Then I will be able to move as fast as the other children."

"You move fast enough, boy."

"I want some boxing gloves, Father," Njal said.

"I would like to box something on you, boy. Like your ears."

"I want a bow and arrows, Father," Hamr said.

"You will shoot your eye out."

"I want a wagon, Father. A red one," Kolbein said.

"If it will stop you from clutching my leg all the time, the answer is yes, yes, yes."

"I want a pair of den-ham braies , Father," Torolf said. "All the men wear them in this country, and see how fine their arses look."

"Your arse looks fine enough, thank you very much."

How his children had managed to see so many things in the short time they'd been in the mart was beyond him.

It seemed like an hour but was only minutes later that Angela returned with a fresh-smelling, goo ing Lida. If he was not already half in love with this woman, he would be now. Her gentle treatment of his daughter touched him deeply.

"Dare I hope that one of those chests you insisted on bringing with you in the van contains a change of clothing for this baby?" she asked.

"Nay," he answered. He might consider her his destiny, but he did not trust her enough yet to let her know he had left a fortune back in her locked vehicle.

"By the way, what in God's name is this?" She tossed a soft cloth belt at him that was exceedingly heavy. It had been wrapped around Lida's middle, and Angela must have discovered it when she'd changed her nappy.

"It is a coin belt," he said, raising his chin defiantly at her glance of condemnation. "All my children wear them, as I do. What if we had been shipwrecked? We would need some means to survive once we were rescued, wouldn't we?"

"I guess so." She was shaking her head at him, though.

On the way back from the baby department, where she picked out several outfits for Lida called "onesies" and "sleepers," a "sippy" cup, and a "teething ring," which the baby instantly began to slobber over, Angela led them to the toil-a-trees section for some hair moose she wanted to buy herself. That was something he really wanted to see…till he discovered it was just a container of some foamy substance and not a large, hairy animal. Was it moose drool she intended to put on her silky hair? He shuddered with revulsion at the thought. While there, he noticed a long aisle of shelves filled with nothing but different types of dee-odor-ants. When he asked Angela what they were, she said, "They prevent excess sweating and foul body odors." She looked pointedly at him when she said the latter.

"Do I smell?" he asked, fully expecting her to say no.

"To high heaven."

The woman just said I stink. No one has ever dared insult me so. Shall I lop off her head? Mayhap later . She had already turned away from him and was heading toward the food department. He lifted one arm and sniffed himself. Yea, she was right. He was a mite odor-some. He noticed that Torolf was doing the same. Their gazes connected of a sudden and they both shrugged sheepishly. Neither of them had ever had a female tell them that they stank "to high heaven." Probably because the women they'd known were also a bit fragrant. He grabbed a half dozen of the products marked "Old Spice," and put them in Torolf's cart.

"What in the name of Thor is that?" Torolf was pointing to a headless, armless figure of a man wearing a tight-fitting garment around his arse and man parts.

Angela's face turned pink with embarrassment before she murmured, "Jockey shorts."

"Jaw-key shorts?" Torolf repeated. "What purpose does such attire fulfill?"

"It's male underpants. Some men—and boys-wear those, and others wear the looser boxer shorts." She pointed to another headless, armless figure as an example. "Surely they have the same kinds of things in your country."

"Nay, they do not," he and Torolf said at the same time.

"Loincloths suffice for most men, or small clothes made of linen for those of a more refined nature, or nothing at all," Magnus explained.

They bought jaw-key shorts for him and his sons in six different sizes. Hamr grumbled that he would rather go bare-arsed and buy a bow and arrows. That purchase prompted Kirsten and Dagny to demand lace-trimmed undergarments of their own, including special dual-cupped pieces of cloth to support their tiny, almost nonexistent breasts.

He wondered idly if Angela's breasts were being "supported" by such an outrageous garment. That was a sight he would love to see. With luck, it was a sight he would see…someday.

Nay, nay, nay! I cannot see that…not if I keep my vow of chastity .

Well, I could look, couldn't I? And not touch?

Ha!

Finally they ended up in the food department, but not before Angela complained, "The whole lot of you are giving me a huge headache."

"I know a surefire method for getting rid of a megrim," he told her.

"Get a life," she responded. There was a frown on her face as she spoke, so he assumed that expression was a negative directive and not a sincere offer of goodwill.

"That is precisely what I am trying to do," he murmured under his breath.

Torolf just laughed, way too amused at his father's lack of success with the wench.

Of all the things that had amazed him thus far in this amazing land, one of the most amazing was the vast array of foods that were displayed in this market. With little care for price—and surely they were priceless—Angela tossed rare oranges and succulent grapes into her cart, along with cakes, already sliced bread, and milk. There was not one, but eight different kinds of crisp apples, both green and red. There were also wild greens, onions, turnips, beets, cabbages, parsley, horseradish, mushrooms, carrots, and many other vegetables he had never heard of.

His frugal nature was disgusted by the excess of this land, and the waste that must surely ensue each day with the products that were not sold. But as a farmer, he had to appreciate the vast array of produce. And he speculated that perchance farming would be a lucrative occupation in this land of luxury.

Almost immediately Angela had had to caution his children to take only one of the samples being offered by ladies standing before several small tables in the food department. Kolbein particularly liked the "shrimp grasshoppers," though Magnus could not bring himself to try the delicacy himself. All of them liked the little cups of cherry Kool-Aid, an overly sweet beverage. And he was partial to the hot-dog roll-ups, even if the meat came from a pet animal. Some people objected to horse meat as well, but when people lived in the frigid north, betimes it was necessary to eat what was available…not that he had ever eaten dog before. Another lady gave them samples of a cold delicacy known as ice cream. It was strawberry flavored and sinfully delicious. Even Lida got a taste, and she nigh purred with delight. Angela put three kinds in her cart.

Something about this whole scenario was perplexing to Magnus. "All these people in this mart…are they all royalty, or of the landed class of upper wealth?"

"No, actually, Wal-Mart prides itself on catering to the middle classes. Working people," Angela said.

"How can that be?" he remarked, gazing about him at all the wonders of the world gathered in one place. "All this richness, and it is available to everyone? Surely this passes the bounds of logic."

Angela stopped pushing her cart and turned to stare at him directly. For the first time her expression was soft as she looked at him. "You're serious, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"You must have come from some really isolated area to be so shocked by what you've seen thus far. It's nothing, believe me. Nothing."

They had finally reached the head of a long line where they were expected to pay for their purchases before leaving the mart. "Do you have money to pay?" Angela asked him.

"Of course," he answered. What did she think? That he was a pauper? He opened the pouch attached to his belt and handed a gold coin to the store person, who wore a white brooch that read, Kimmie .

Kimmie stared at the coin, then at him. "This is what you intend to pay with? Oh, man, it's almost time for my break, and I gotta get a loony-bird."

"What is it?" Angela asked, peering around his body. She was always muttering something about him being big as a tree. Well, of course he was. He was a Viking, wasn't he? What did she expect? A dwarf? "Some antique coin?"

"Now what? My coin is not good here?" Magnus confronted Kimmie. "Gold is gold, m'lady. Do not try to tell me different."

Kimmie spoke into a black square attached to her "station" by a black coiled cord. Her voice echoed throughout the store, just like the horn back at the longship site. "Manager to register three. Manager to register three."

"Shhhh," Angela intervened. "I'll pay and you can reimburse me later." She pulled out some parchment pieces from a black leather pouch that hung over her shoulder.

"Parchment!" he scoffed. "They will not accept my gold, but they will accept your parchment?"

"Shhhh," she cautioned once again. "Let me pay so we can get out of this store without causing an even bigger scene than we already have."

He looked around and saw that she was right. People were staring at them with great interest. Was it their unique attire, or the fact that he had so many children, or the sight of his gold coin?

"Listen, Magnus, I saw a small coin shop in the strip mall outside, next to Wal-Mart. Why don't you go there and see what they'll give you for your coin while I take care of things here? I'll meet you at the van."

He agreed, reluctantly, and stomped off with Njal and Hamr trailing behind him. No way was he letting those two out of his sight in this land of myriad mischief opportunities.

When they were all strapped into their respective seats in the van a half hour later and all their packages were stowed in the back with his chests, Angela asked him, "Well, how did you do? Did they buy your coin?" There was a smirk on her face which led Magnus to believe that she had no confidence in his ability to make such a transaction.

Wench, did no one ever tell you that 'tis unwise to push a Viking too far? You will learn that there is payment to be exacted for every insult you toss a Norseman's way . "Yea, I sold my coin," he said, but he injected a miserable tone into his voice. "I suspect I was cheated. The coin merchant was too happy over our transaction. In truth, he begged me to come back with any other coins I have."

"How much?" she demanded to know.

He shrugged. "The worst part is that it's all in parchment."

"Parchment?" she inquired.

"Yea, just like yours."

She frowned. "You mean paper money. Come on, Magnus. Spill the beans. How much did the man give you?"

It was with much hesitation and even more feigned embarrassment that he pulled a pile of parchment from his belt pouch. The pile was so high he had barely been able to stuff it all into his pouch.

"Magnus!" she exclaimed. "Those are hundred dollar bills. Let me see."

She took the pile into her lap and began to count. It took her a long time to finish. When she did, she gazed at him with amazement. "There's ten thousand dollars here and a check for forty thousand more."

"Is that a great amount?"

"It is a very great amount. Do you have any more of those coins?"

Chestfuls . "A few," he lied. "How much do I owe you?"

She took one of the parchment sheets from him.

"Only one?" His eyes grew wide as he comprehended just how valuable the coin must have been.

"It must have been an antique coin."

"Antique! 'Tis no more antique than I am."

"Well, don't sell any more till I put you in touch with some reputable dealer."

"Why did you send me to this man if he was not reputable?"

"How was I supposed to know you had some authentic antique coin?"

"I am telling you, that coin was not antique. Here, look at this coin. It is just like the one I sold." He took another coin out of his pouch and showed it to her.

" Eoforwic? Where is that?" she asked, turning the coin over, examining both sides carefully.

"That is the Saxon name for Jorvik…or York. Jorvik is the Viking capital of Britain. And as far as I know, those coins were minted last year. Does it not have an imprint on it of Aethelred the Unready, the British all-king?"

She stared at him for a long time before asking in a suffocated whisper, "Who…are…you?"