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Part 1: Nothing goes as planned.

Norway, 1043

Ashildr hated blood. It always got on her hands and clothes and stuck to everything as it dried. Her hands squelched as she wrung the blood and grit and soap out of the shirt she was washing. It belonged to her brother-in-law, Jacques. He'd stained it while hunting.

She was thinking about Jacques as she washed the shirt. When you turned eighteen, you stopped ageing, until you found someone. Your kjæreste. Your soulmate. Ashildr was still eighteen, even though she had been born twenty seven years ago.

She sighed as she examined her hands. They were red, chapped, and had blood under the short nails. That would take some scrubbing to get out.

Picking up her bundle of wet, washed clothing in one hand, she trudged back up the beach toward the village. Inwardly, she was screaming at how boring her life was. She wasn't permitted to go on the voyages because of her "fragility" and her brother had just found Jacques and was ageing again, and here she was, washing blood off clothes while she could be out learning about the world, or reading, or finding her other half, or... or anything!

All she wanted was to escape the village so small it didn't even have a name. 

Ashildr was so engrossed in her thoughts of the world that she was missing that she failed to notice the stealthy feet sneaking up behind her.

Her arms were pinned behind her back and a leg swept her feet out from under her. She felt a sharp cold touch at her neck as a bag was put over her head.

"That is the finest edge that can be made on the best blade you may ever see. Don't move an inch."

Ashildr was grateful that she had taken the time to learn English. The strangers were obviously from the Isles. The voice was certainly male, and sounded old. The hands on her wrists felt leathery to the touch and covered in rough bits, like old scars or cuts. Her father's hands were like that. It was from the salt air and the little nicks from rope and knives.

Even without the warning to stay put, she would have sat perfectly still. The knife was pressed hard on her jugular.

"I'm going to take this knife off your throat. We're going to walk toward my ship, and we'll talk there. Don't try anything."

It was as if her prayers had been answered. Someone had come to take her away from the village. Admittedly, she had pictured having more choice in the manner of her departure, but this was she had wanted. Right?