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- Herausgeber: P. J. Parker
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The internationally acclaimed, polarizing,
fictional Romantic Saga.
Roxelana was the most seductive, powerful, egotistical, intriguing, manipulative and enigmatic woman of the early sixteenth century. History had never known anyone of such beauty and cunning. Yet very few know her story...
Europe is in turmoil under the oppressive rule of the Hapsburgs and the incessant raids of marauding Tartar Warriors. Istanbul, the eye of the Ottoman Sultanate and considered to be the center of the Universe, is the largest and most cosmopolitan city in the world. It is intoxicating and vibrant. But it is also a metropolis of mis-placed trust, of decadence, run by a sexually-charged, drug-riddled bureaucracy. In the middle of this city, high on an imposing promontory is the fabled Topkapi Palace - the Seraglio of Sultan Suleyman Khan - the Shadow of God on Earth. Within its multitude of gazel-filled courtyards, along its secluded arcades and twisting down through its labyrinth of corridors to the solidly locked doors of the Sultan's Harem are secrets and whispers that promise death by strangulation to some, and absolute power to others. It is in this world that a young girl, abducted by Tartars and sold into slavery, captured the heart of the greatest Ottoman Sultan and rose to control the largest armies on Earth from within the gilded cage of Topkapi Harem.
But does she know that there are those who would see her dead? And yet another whose undying love, if revealed, would lead to the destruction of all her well laid plans? The story of Roxelana has remained hidden for centuries and needs to be told. It is about someone we should all be acquainted with intimately.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Roxelana & Suleyman
P. J. Parker
Published by Phillip John Parker, 2016.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
ROXELANA & SULEYMAN
First edition. May 26, 2016.
Copyright © 2016 P. J. Parker.
ISBN: 978-0998685663
Written by P. J. Parker.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Also by P. J. Parker
Roxelana & Suleyman
Watch for more at P. J. Parker’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By P. J. Parker
Dedication
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
GENEALOGY of the HOUSE OF OSMAN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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Also By P. J. Parker
About the Author
This one is for Alex.
BOOK ONE
My glance fell upon a beautiful flower;
the universe turned around her.
— Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent
CHAPTER ONE
Fear gripped the young girl as she raced from the grove of beech out onto the open alpine lawn. The snow-covered peaks of the Carpathians rose all about her—their raw, pristine beauty soaring high above the thoughts of horror that made her head ache and vision blur. Skirts and undergarments had been torn in her flight; voluminous red hair had pulled free from its ribbons and entangled with broken twigs. Wiping tears from her face, she stumbled across the grass and around a jagged rocky outcrop—the clutching fingers of terror attempting to trip and consume her completely.
The mountainside resonated with an incessant chiming—a discordant clanging. Church bells from the village of Lvov, nestled in the heart of the valley far below, peeled and tolled with a freneticism that served only to escalate her panic. Echoing shouts of alarm and distress intermingled and struck up the hillside. They cut through the valley with the same grinding force as the glacier that had originally chiseled it from the landscape.
Pushing through a scratching thicket of birch... gaining speed down a twisting herder’s path... the full length and breadth of the valley that had been her entire world since birth opened up before her. At its head, to the east, upon the crest that monitored the myriad of gorges and rifts through the range, a warning beacon blazed. Thick black smoke climbed into the chilled morning sky. Several miles further, perched on an imposing granite escarpment, the smoke of a second beacon curled and eddied on a gusting, mountain breeze. Below her, the people of Lvov scurried from their cottages and barns up toward the fort on Castle Hill. Men yelled and swore as they herded livestock. Women gathered their children and precious belongings. All moved in anguished haste toward the safety of the ancient citadel.
It had been more than five years—late in the autumn of 1513—since the Tartars had last invaded the village. But Aleksandra knew, without doubt, that the warning bells, the beacons and the turmoil below her meant just that was occurring right now.
She ran.
She ran and slid down the slope—goats bleating and scampering from her path—all her attention on making it to the village and the protection of the fort with the others. Reaching the lower ground, jumping from rock to rock across a cascading brook that clung to the edge of the pastures, she turned, momentarily, towards the top of the valley. She stopped..., balancing on an icy boulder mid-stream, mesmerized by the sight. An uncountable number of Tartar warriors, astride their muscled, Mongolian steeds had peaked the ridge. Metal-studded brown leathers, topped with metal and leather helmets, glinted in the morning sunlight. All held swords, bows or lances in hand. At their center was an imposing figure. An immaculate black stallion, fully two hands taller than all the others, carried an armored rider swathed in black leathers and furs. Multi-pointed antlers sprouted from his crown. Holding his hand to his mouth, he let out a yelping, staccato scream that ripped down the valley and through Aleksandra’s overwhelming dread. Several of the mounts reared up on hind legs and then all in the horde deployed as one. They galloped down the vale with a thunderous roar that reverberated off the verdant slopes and amongst the granite peaks—clashing with the escalating din from the village.
“Oh dear God.” Aleksandra faltered in disbelief, almost slipping from the boulder.
She leapt the last few feet to the bank and coursed through the thick, wet grasses of the pasture—lifting her skirts as high as she dared so that she would not trip. Her lungs were soon aching, her legs burning with a numbing pain. But still she ran, not seeming to lessen the several-hundred yards separating her from imagined safety. The Tartars, meanwhile, had descended the full length of the slope and traversed half the valley floor. The thumping of hooves and the crack of whips was deafening. Louder yet were the horrendous shrieks and hollers of the warriors.
Between the village and the oncoming horsemen, Aleksandra staggered across a rough-dug field—finally slumping to catch her breath at a wall that rambled between the meadows. She grasped the top rung of the wall’s stile. Pulling herself up the ramshackle steps, scrambling to the top of the stone, shifting her weight to jump down to the far side, the piercing screams of the approaching mass pulled at her, distracted her. The valley suddenly seemed to topple... sky and mountains tumbling... the soggy black soil of the adjacent field coming up to slap her solidly in the face. She felt her ankle being yanked, wedging in the stile, only slipping loose when her full weight had twisted it and thrust her down. She attempted to stand, but her ankle, bent and seared by pain, buckled beneath her—throwing her deeper into the mud and sod.
Sprawled on the ground, she peered toward the village. Her whole body constricted with a terror that could escalate no further. She turned in resignation toward the horror of the Tartars galloping toward her. She stared at the majestic horses pounding at the earth. She stared at the thickly muscled warriors who waved their weapons and screamed. She just stared.
“Aleksandra!” The call was unexpected and uncertain through the haze of pain. “Aleksandra, get up, get up!”
“Dariusz...” she mouthed, unable to force the slightest sound from her lips as he came into her field of vision. He ran across the fields, taking the low walls and hedgerow in his stride.
Thwack. An arrow smacked into the mud several paces from where Aleksandra lay. A dozen more shivered through the air on a trajectory toward her and Dariusz. The Tartars were still several hundred yards off so the feathered missiles were falling short of their mark, though, Aleksandra conceded, not for long. She attempted to stand. Dariusz continued toward her. He was within feet of her when an arrow struck into the flesh of his chest, near the shoulder, with a squelching shudder. He faltered sideways, blood draining from his face, but still he rushed, only dropping to his knees when he had reached her side. He threw his arms around her and squeezed her tight—pressing his cheek to her forehead.
“Are you... alright..., Aleks?” His chest heaved as he gulped for breath.
Without answering him, she buried her face in the warming heat of his bloody chest and sobbed. The Tartars were less than three hundred feet distant. Warriors shrieked. Horses galloped. Hooves thumped and churned the heavy black soil. Arrows pierced the air and plunged into the ground about them. Aleksandra bit her lower lip, attempting to stop her sobbing, as she stared, wide-eyed, at the arrow stuck in Dariusz’s torso, and then up at his face. It was contorted with fear and pain. He pulled her fully up into his arms, rose and turned to run, as well as he could, back toward the village—tripping, twisting and veering to avoid the onslaught of arrows. The horsemen were almost upon them.
As they neared the closest cottage of Lvov, the thatch of the dwelling’s roof unexpectedly exploded into flame. Debris and heat reached out to embrace them. Aleksandra flinched—jerking up and back in disbelief. Flaming arrows shivered through the air. A score of fiery missiles arced high across the sky to leave black pluming trails before penetrating the reed thatching of the cottages. The blaze spread quick, unchecked. It jumped from roof to roof, leapt and tumbled from cottage to barn. Dogs barked. Goats scurried through deserted laneways and streets soon heavy with a rolling, sooty effluence. Flames licked at timber shutters and doors.
Aleksandra forced her eyes shut, pressing herself more firmly into Dariusz as he dashed between two of the cottages. The roaring blaze and thick choking smoke engulfed them immediately. Moments later, Tartar horsemen galloped through the same conflagration. Blinded by fear and billowing blackness, Aleksandra and Dariusz were buffeted by the jostling, sweaty flanks of the horses. Flickering flame, menacing horseflesh and screaming, leather-armored warriors knocked roughly all about them.
Aleksandra sensed Dariusz’s desperation and confusion as he turned to and fro. Smoke burnt her throat and eyes, distilling the realization that even with his efforts they were, indeed, trapped. There was the glint of metal.... One of the Tartars raised a sword.... Orange flames caressed and shimmered along its length.... Dariusz twisted and ducked, pressing Aleksandra between himself and the foam-covered rump of one of the chargers. The weapon cut down through the haze..., but a sideward shove of animal caused it to miss its target and slice through the rump of the horse directly beside where they huddled. The stallion screamed—a distressing utterance that Aleksandra could never have imagined—and fell, throwing its rider to the ground.
Dariusz spun, only to be caught between the bellies of another two mounts. A muddy Tartar boot kicked him in the chest, inches from Aleksandra’s horrified gaze; and then kicked him again—harder. The boot clipped the protruding arrow, pushing it deeper into Dariusz’s flesh, and breaking it off just above the puckering, blood-caked skin. Dariusz shuddered with a grunting agonized yell, as if he were choking. Then, abruptly he stumbled and dropped to the ground. Aleksandra fell with him, slipping from his bloody grip to slam onto the cobbles. The cloth-bound legs of the warriors’ horses towered above them. Hooves thumped into the dirt and rocks about their prone bodies. Dariusz, somehow, reaffirmed his grip on her and began to roll—pulling her with him. They rolled under two of the horses, then a third. Trail-sharpened hooves struck down repeatedly on command. They cut into Dariusz’s legs and back as he guarded her from the blows. The full weight of one horse bore down brutally against him, pushing the breath from both him and Aleksandra, as she lay beneath his bulk. The anguish of Dariusz’s sobbing shriek—his cheek pressed against hers—could only make her wish for immediate death. Please, the unphrased plea seemed to plunge through her mind. Please...
They kept rolling. Masked by flame and smoke, they tumbled free from the melee and under the raised wooden door of a barn that bounded the street. It was the blacksmith workshop. Enveloped by the dense smoke—the roof and timbers above inscrolled by curling flames—Aleksandra shivered with an unexpected and overwhelming sense of relief as Dariusz rose from the ground and pulled her to her feet, holding her full weight so as to keep it off her twisted ankle. He held her for a moment, just a moment, gazing down into her eyes from a bruised face, streaked by dirt, tears and blood. In the imagined security of the blazing enclosure, Aleksandra swam within the teary pained depths before her—knowing that what she had long hoped for was mutual. Warmth encompassed her as slowly, deliberately, Dariusz leant down and placed his trembling lips upon hers—a slight, inexperienced brush of the flesh—before lifting her up into his arms once more and carrying her to the rear of the workshop.
Outside....
Aleksandra covered her ears... attempting to block the noise from recognition....
Outside the agitated neigh of war-horses, the shout of invaders and the wretched screams of villagers, who had not made it up to the fort, resonated through the streets. The front doors of the workshop suddenly creaked and shuddered—kicked open by two Tartars on their mounts. The warriors spied Dariusz and Aleksandra near the rear of the burning building instantly. They glanced at each other and smirked—a curl of the lips that accentuated their unshaven chins and unusual black slant of their eyes. One of them smirked directly at Aleksandra through the haze and reached for his codpiece to give it a reassuring tug. He chuckled to his companion and spoke in strange words that were muffled by the crackling flames above.
The horses pulled in uneasily amongst the walls and bales of hay fully aflame. The larger Tartar freed the bow from his back-strap and deftly pulled an arrow from his partner’s quiver. Aiming directly at the two near the rear of the barn, he smiled and, grunting, released the feathered missile. The arrow cut through the air, whistling along the full length of the workshop toward its intended target. Smoke parted and curled in its wake. Aleksandra stared incoherently within the split second of ensuing death—sensing more than actually seeing as the entire burning roof structure above them all, groaned and haphazardly caved in. Flaming beams and thatch fell upon the horsemen. They were crushed and devoured by a dusty blaze that churned and sparked. At the same instant, Dariusz hurled all his body-weight, and Aleksandra’s, to crash through the flimsy back wall of the shop—just as the arrow thudded into the timber where he had stood.
They hit the ground amongst splintered and smoldering debris in the lane outside. Dariusz pushed himself to his feet, still holding her securely, his face slack from pain and exhaustion. His wound bled freely down his breast—saturating Aleksandra’s ripped and burnt clothing. Running—stumbling—through the service ways and alleys of Lvov, they passed deserted markets, churches and public buildings. There were bodies lying on the cobbles and in the gutters. They hurried past the corpse of a young man they both knew well—several arrows in his torso and an arm hacked off by a Tartar sword. Aleksandra turned from the sight and pushed her face against Dariusz’s vest—the crimson-soaked material sticking to her skin. They proceeded as rapidly as they were able; circling around blocks where they heard the horsemen, doubling back when needed, but at all times heading up toward the safety of Castle Hill Fort. Climbing the steeper streets, Aleksandra gazed over Dariusz’s shoulder, back down into the center of the town. The market square hall, well over a hundred years old, burned ferociously. More than a quarter of the stone and thatch dwellings also burned—sending a dark black haze up into the sky to turbulently mix with the clouds that hung across the roof of the valley. Tartars on horseback roamed, filling sacks with plunder from the homes, stores and churches. One of them was loading a wagon with silks and rugs that had undoubtedly come to Lvov from the Eastern trade routes.
“Aleks,” Dariusz whispered, the grating fear evident in his voice as he indicated to the far crest of the hill with a jerk of his chin. To the west a band of Tartars were galloping up toward the front gates of the fort—coming between them and their only chance of survival. Dariusz swung around, scanning the buildings that surrounded them for an answer. To their left was an open barn door—Aleksandra pointed. Inside she could hear the anxious neighing of horses. Dariusz raced through the door and to the nearest mount, a large chestnut. He threw Aleksandra up onto it, and then he climbed, with difficulty, up onto a white mare in the next stall. The two horses and their riders bolted from the barn. Aleksandra, thankful for the freedom of the chestnut, no longer heeded the pain of her swollen ankle. She dug it furiously into the gelding’s ribs. They rode hard up through the cobbled lanes. This part of town had so far been spared the torch, but even as they sped along, flaming arrows cut the sky, landing on the thatch or shattering through the glass panes of the more opulent residences. Up on top of Castle Hill, getting closer with each stride, Aleksandra could make out the villagers manning the parapets of the fort. Armed only with sticks and a few crossbows they could never hope to evict the Tartars from the village. At best they could defend themselves. And with several weeks of supplies in store, plus a well offering life-sustaining water, they might wait it out until the invaders retreated.
We’ve got to make it, Aleksandra thought. She gripped the flying mane and kicked the flanks of her mount with renewing vigor. They rounded a corner at full gallop, straight into the line of sight of a single Tartar warrior. He pulled forcefully on the reins of his steed and turned toward them. Drawing his sword, already bloody, a menacing delight flicked across his face. He let out a grunting yell and jabbed his heels into his horse, urging it swiftly forward.
“Ride, Aleks, go! Please go!” yelled Dariusz above the war cry. He slapped and kicked her horse on the rump. Aleksandra hesitated, but then pulled the chestnut to and raced along a side alley. Riding up the slim passage she turned to see Dariusz face the warrior alone. He had no weapons. The Tartar galloped toward him, sword wielding, yelling. Dariusz held his position—visibly bracing himself for the inevitable. With the horseman almost upon him, he pulled the white mare about and leapt to the ground, behind its bulk. The Tartar yanked sideways at his reins, muttering in anger, to circle around for a cleaner strike. However, unexpected movement from his right distracted him. Sitting high on the chestnut, Aleksandra bore down upon him, her fear replaced by an emotion she had never before felt. The Tartar lifted his weapon to retaliate, but the chestnut collided with him and his Mongolian steed with a bone-splintering crash. Horseflesh smacked fiercely into horseflesh. The Tartar plummeted to the ground and the two horses collapsed and rolled over him with a sickening squelch and grind. Saddles and stirrups flailed. Legs and tails circled skyward. Tartar and horses screamed. Aleksandra tumbled awkwardly up, over and through the air—hitting the ground and skidding across the stones. Her neck bent back with a sharp pain in the fall, and she was confronted by the sight of one-thousand pounds of dead horseflesh, flying saddles, hooves, snapped limbs and a bloody, dead, leather-armor-clad Tartar tumbling straight toward her. All went black.
* * * *
Dariusz shuddered in a numbing shock... the mess of horses and Tartar stopping just short of Aleksandra. He had no time to check if she were alive or dead. He saw only the pristine whiteness of her neck arching back at an odd angle amongst the waves and flaming curls of her hair. Fat droplets of horse and Tartar blood were splattered along its length. He picked up the dead-weight of her body and threw it over the back of his horse. Snatching the warrior’s sword, he mounted the mare behind her and once more galloped toward the entrance to the fort. A group of Tartars climbed the slope toward the same goal. With one hand holding tight to Aleksandra, he urged the mare to race as fast as she was able. But so did the Tartars who saw his flight. Dariusz yelled to the men on top of the fort wall—his voice hoarse and broken, exacerbated by a smoky, pungent bile in his mouth, and an all-embracing terror. He closed the gap between himself and the gate. The invaders closed in even faster. Arrows flew. Several struck the white mare. She screamed and wrenched. Dariusz hunkered down, kicking his heels more firmly into her bloody flanks. The fort gate grated, slightly ajar. The mare hurtled across the last paces and stumbled through the opening, just before it was shouldered shut with a jerking, scraping shudder. She collapsed to the ground, dead—throwing both Dariusz and Aleksandra into a tumbling, unconscious heap.
CHAPTER TWO
Many hours passed before Aleksandra started to regain consciousness.
Lying on a mound of hay on the barracks floor, she drifted in and out of a fractured reality. Eyes still closed, she recognized the softness of a blanket delicately laid over her by one of the old women of the village. Her ankle and head ached, but the warmth of the blanket and the soft prickling of the hay beneath her gave a welcome comfort. Though not really awake, she stroked another’s hand. She felt its strength—its familiarity. Tenderly she caressed the fine hair on the back of the hand and then, letting the fingers entwine, touched the reassuring row of calluses that crossed the top of the palm. With delight she sensed the pulse of blood and life as it flowed through that hand—through the hand of the one she now knew she....
She opened her eyes and turned to Dariusz. He slouched in the hay—his bare back leaning against the stone of the barrack’s wall. He was fast asleep. His head tilted down to one side, the new stubble on his chin brushing against his naked shoulder. The mop of straight brown hair hung scruffily over his face—barely hiding thick eyebrows and lashes, but unable to camouflage the intensity that, even in sleep, was evident in all of his features.
Aleksandra smiled—noticing that even heroes dribbled in their sleep.
Pondering her... her thoughts... for this boy... for this man..., her gaze fell to the bandages on his chest. Her heart wrenched. The broken arrow was still embedded in Dariusz’s flesh and protruded through bloody cloths. The chest hair was matted with blood; his left arm spasmed.
She pulled herself up to assist him, but then awkwardly grasped at her own head... a sharp pain pounding through it from front to back. It made her feel sick.
“Hold on there, missy. Don’t ye try to be handling too much at once.”
Aleksandra started, recognizing the voice of old mother Baranovsky. She had owned the millinery store in the center of Lvov for what must have been forever. And as she had been around forever she knew everything about everything and everyone.
“And don’t ye be getting no ideas about that young lad while he be sleeping.”
Aleksandra blushed as she gratefully accepted a cup of hot chamomile from the old mother. She loved and respected the elderly woman. Indeed, she had often wondered why her widowed father hadn’t married her, as they were well suited in their ways.
“Father!” Aleksandra jerked in renewed fear. She peered around the barracks—searching for that familiar oilskin cloak or thatch of greying red hair. About thirty villagers lay on the floor or sat at old wooden benches. Most had blankets and were trying to sleep. Some cried. The wretchedness of the room and its inhabitants frightened her. Old mother Baranovsky, tending a young mother, seemed to sense her thoughts.
“Don’t ye worry, my dear. Your father fares well and has already checked on you at least a dozen times in the last hours while ye be sleeping. He be outside doing what a man in his position needs to be doing at this time. A fine man is he.”
Aleksandra was appreciative that her father, Father Lisowska, was indeed a well-respected citizen of Lvov. With his robust stature and resounding voice he had long been a stabilizing influence for the town-folk from his High Street Kirk. She recalled fondly that, though a man of God and papers, it was not unknown for him to drink all of the younger men under the table, and beat even old farmer Kulid at backgammon. But that made the men respect him even more. His dear wife Anna had died sixteen years previous, while giving birth to Aleksandra. But Aleksandra took consolation that he was not lonely. He had the town. He had her. And still Anna was alive for him, as he rejoiced in his daughter attending her daily chores, and singing to herself while discovering the simple joys of life in the valley. Aleksandra was his greatest happiness, as he was hers.
After draining the cup of chamomile, Aleksandra stood up and leaned against the wall, massaging her right temple with the pad of her thumb. Pressing hard gave her a relief that the chamomile could not. She brushed her fingers over Dariusz’s hair, then hobbled to the scarred, oak door of the barracks, the muffled sounds from the fort outside taking on clarity as she approached. Aleksandra lifted and pulled on the door handle, but was not prepared for the scene that confronted her when the door swung wide. The inside of Castle Hill Fort was chaos. Hundreds of villagers crowded into the confines of the wood and masonry structure. Livestock were corralled near the western wall; however, a score of goats, pigs and dogs still ran freely amongst the people who vied for space to huddle. Many villagers sat in torment—consoling their young. Most of the men and elder boys stood atop the perimeter walls, on the roof of the barracks above Aleksandra’s head, or guarding Castle Hill Fort’s single entrance gate. Two fully-laden wagons were rolled up hard against the boards and cross bracing of the ninety-year-old gate. The corpse of a white mare was also pressed against it to lend a dead weight to their protection. Aleksandra shuddered when she realized it was the mare Dariusz had been riding. Dust and smoke from the village hung low above them all, pervaded by the sickening stench of burning flesh.
Her father, with his flaming red hair, stood defiantly, angrily, on a hefty crate in the middle of this chaos. He was emphatically barking orders and giving blessing at the same time. He sent men to the top of the wall; commanded others into the cellars to re-count food-stocks; told another to go make peace with his wife—all the while hanging onto the ear of a young lout, who, Aleksandra concluded, had been up to some ill-timed mischief. Father Lisowska turned and saw his daughter, his demeanor immediately softening. Giving the boy a slap on the back of the head and a boot in the backside for good measure, he jumped from the crate and strode toward her—smiling broadly. Aleksandra welcomed his big-bear of a hug. His cloak enveloped her completely and she felt safe as she cuddled into its darkness and warmth, imbued with the smell of aged tobacco.
“I feared that I had lost you, my darling.”
Aleksandra held onto him even more tightly and elated in the reassurance of his embrace. Father Lisowska picked her up and carried her back toward the barracks, wrapped in his cloak.
“This is no place for you out here with all these ruffians, my dear. Besides, best we go in and tend to that young man of yours.” Aleksandra blushed at his words, that he should so easily realize what she had only just. When his bulk entered through the barrack’s door, old mother Baranovsky flashed her disapproval.
“Well it be high time that ye stopped playing your games outside and come in to help where the real work be.”
“Oh, be quiet, old woman,” he said as he laid Aleksandra on the hay and gave her a sly wink.
Aleksandra smirked. She knew how fond he was of the old mother.
“The lad be fast asleep on chamomile and dill berry potion. He be ready for you.”
Father Lisowska eyed the sleeping youth, but before taking the tongs from old mother Baranovsky he bent down and opened one of Dariusz’s eyelids with a stout finger. He reached deep into his cloak and pulled out his flask of old farmer Kulid’s best.
“Just to make sure....”
He placed his thumb on Dariusz’s fleshy lower lip, pulling it down to expose the whiteness of teeth. Urging the mouth open further he upturned the flask so that a few good chugs went straight in. Dariusz coughed and spluttered in his sleep, as the liquor burned over his tongue and down his throat. But still he remained unconscious. Old mother Baranovsky handed Father Lisowska the tongs and huddled close on the floor beside him—one hand on Dariusz’s naked shoulder, the other braced firmly around the Father. The later gave Aleksandra another devious wink and mouthed, “Look away.” Though she did as she was told, Aleksandra could feel the tongs grip the protruding end of the arrow. She could feel the tug of flesh as the shaft and its head were yanked from the chest; could feel the pain as Dariusz, even in a drugged state, gave a low guttural moan and began to sob in his sleep. Tears blurred her vision. Turning back, as old mother Baranovsky applied fresh bandages, Aleksandra sank into her father’s side. Then, holding the hands of both Dariusz and her father, she too slipped into a deep, drugged sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Dariusz and Aleksandra stood atop Castle Hill Fort’s crumbling parapet, leaning against the trunk of a spindly tree that had somehow taken root in the masonry. It had been several days since the Tartars had left the village, but still buildings smoldered and spot fires burned. The imposing buildings in the center of town were no more than heaps of burnt-out rubble, however Aleksandra knew that Lvov would survive and prosper once more. This area had been inhabited for untold generations; had developed into a key trade stop on both East and West Caravan routes during the late 1400s. It would survive. High above the dirty black haze that clouded the sky, several cranes circled. They would soon be rebuilding their nests on the chimneys of the town.
Aleksandra turned to Dariusz who surveyed the valley for any sign of hidden threat. She smiled at the thought of the touch of his cheek against hers—his lips upon her own that one tender time.
“Best I return to my chores before old mother Baranovsky chastises me,” she said at last.
Dariusz’s lips parted as if he wished to say something, but instead he was silent, his brow crinkling in thought. Eventually he offered, “Will you sit with me again when we sup tonight, Aleks?” He reached out and dared entwine a lock of her hair around his finger.
“And every night,” she whispered in return.
She held his gaze as she hobbled to the ladder and climbed down its rungs. He put his hand to his breast—gingerly feeling the swelled tenderness of the wound close to his heart. And still their eyes were locked upon each other’s.
* * * *
That evening, after the supper of potatoes and salted meats had been consumed, the elders of the village gathered at a rickety table near the kitchen fires. The matrons of the village went about their work, but all the while kept keen ears open to the conversation. Aleksandra and Dariusz sat nearby, on the edge of the well, talking quietly.
“No! It is too early to go back out into the village!” Father Lisowska stated emphatically, causing all to turn toward him. His face was flushing almost as red as his hair as this meeting tested his anger.
“But the beacons have confirmed that the invaders have left the valley, and our scouts have not turned up any sign of them in the village,” retorted baker Kolessa.
“No, there is something wrong! The last Tartar invasion saw them stay in the town for a dozen weeks, eating our food and stealing our wares. Why is it that they came and left within three days?”
“But the beacons, the scouts,” butted in school master Klevan and old father Petryk in unison.
“I don’t give a damn about the beacons and scouts. There is something wrong. We need to stay in the protection of the fort until we can be totally sure that the entire village and valley are clear.” Father Lisowska stood up in disgust. He brought his large fist heavily down onto the table to ensure he would impinge on the group.
There was much disagreement amongst the elders and the argument went on long into the evening. Eventually the matrons of the village also joined the heated dispute about whether or not it would be safe to leave the fort and start rebuilding their lives. Aleksandra listened anxiously, knowing that she had no right other than to remain silent. Finally, it was decided that the matter would be settled by a vote. The senior men of the village huddled around the table. The matrons stood staunchly behind them whispering in each of their ears. Flickering flames from the kitchen fires cast a glow over them all as one by one they voiced their ballot.
They would be leaving Castle Hill Fort at daybreak.
Aleksandra could see that her father was barely containing his wrath, but also knew that he would concede to the counsel of the group. He would, without a doubt, be praying for their safety throughout the long night ahead.
* * * *
When the early morning light slipped over the Carpathians and cut into the depths of the valley, the gates of the fort were hauled open. At first a few of the men scurried through them and then more and more villagers ventured out to find out what was left of their homes and possessions.
Aleksandra walked with her father amongst the crowd of villagers and livestock. Dariusz had gone ahead with the young men that he worked with under the village stonemason. They would have a lot of work to do to rebuild the village, Aleksandra surmised. Walking their various ways down the cobbled streets, Aleksandra could not help but feel grief amongst the rubble and debris that surrounded them. Once-splendid cottages were gutted and black. The carcasses of animals and fellow villagers lay strewn about with broken pottery, furnishings and personal belongings discarded during the pillage. The villagers continued on in a null silence that was punctuated by the sobbing of a distraught child or ragged howling of a mother who had found her husband or son dead amongst the wreckage.
When Aleksandra and her father entered the village square they came to a standstill. The imposing central statue of Prince Danylo of Galicia stood blackened, but intact. And to Aleksandra’s amazement, Father Lisowska’s High Street Kirk had also survived the onslaught. The Father fell to his knees and kissed the steps of the stone structure. Sitting on the ground, he turned to his daughter and cried. Aleksandra had never seen her father cry before. She had been told that he had mourned after the death of her mother, however she only knew him as a man of strength and confidence. She placed her arm tenderly around his heaving shoulders and pressed her cheek to his.
A band of Tartar horsemen suddenly appeared....
Galloping their Mongolian steeds into and around the confines of the square, they screamed and yelled, swinging swords and lances through the air and through the flesh of stunned villagers. Men and women ran in all directions. Children were hurriedly scooped up while others were left bewildered, thrown to the cobbles by the warriors’ erratic course. Another two droves of horsemen bolted at full speed from surrounding lanes, destroying any optimism of escape. Several of the men, Dariusz included, attempted to fight back, but were knocked to the ground by horseflesh and clubs.
Father Lisowska jumped to his feet. Aleksandra could feel the anger welling up within him as he embraced her.
There were thirty or so mounted warriors in the square, circling the villagers and forcing them to its center, to crowd and mill around the blackened statue. Father Lisowska pushed Aleksandra into the middle of the terrified group and stepped valiantly toward the enemy. Before a word of anger or pleading could be uttered from his lips, a Tartar sword came arcing down. It slashed through the collar of his cloak, through the skin, flesh and bone of his neck—separating his head from his body.
Aleksandra, buffeted amongst the crowd, succumbed to total shock—incredulous as her father’s body crumpled to the ground. His arms and legs flailed violently and then he was still.
She could do nothing—unable to control the trembling that cascaded throughout her body; that drained the blood from all thoughts of consequence. This wasn’t real. She just stood there, shoved by panicking fellow villagers. She stared at her father... at his cloak... at his outstretched hand... at the pool of blood spreading across the cobbles of the square.
The blood.
Her blood.
The horsemen had trapped more than two-score of villagers in the square. They used their steeds and well-placed slashes of swords to separate the men from the women and children. Aleksandra’s horror escalated as they surrounded the men and herded them to the far side of the space. Though some yards away, she could see Dariusz in the skirmish. The intense anger on his face frightened her. She couldn’t lose him too.
Abruptly their gaze met.
Time stopped.
She fell into his eyes. Her love... yes, she was certain that’s what it was... swam in their hazel brown hue and was reflected back with a passion and yearning equal to her own. Clearly his thoughts came to her.
Then the horsemen struck.
Arrows were fired point blank into the men. Swords hacked and clubs hit with skull-splintering accuracy. Men fell, young and old. Dariusz too, fell amongst the heap of corpses after several arrows thudded into his torso—front and back. When, finally, the horsemen moved back from the carnage, the women and children in the square were able to fully realize the mound of corpses that had once been their fathers, husbands and sons. And lovers. The men were dead.
The Tartars turned about; the flanks of their mounts saturated in blood. Closing in on the women and children once more, the survivors collapsed to the ground in a grieving, quivering shock. Warriors leapt from their horses, roughly handling the captives—separating them into smaller groups. Aleksandra was yanked, shaking, into a cluster of young, frightened girls. She knew all of them well, but it was Tetyana and Maryana that she clung to—they having been close friends for all of their short lives. One of the Tartars drew near, inspecting their bodies, faces and hair. He brusquely checked teeth with dirty-gloved hands. The girls, too scared to retaliate, let themselves be poked and prodded. None dared look him directly in the face. He grabbed Aleksandra by the chin—lifting her gaze to his—her face devoid of all expression or emotion. His broad grin smelt of decaying stag and alcohol. Licking chapped lips, he pressed in close to her. Suddenly the horseman’s countenance altered and he pulled away, as if an unexpected thought had occurred. He smiled even more broadly than before—exposing a mouth full of chipped and rotten teeth. Barking orders in a dialect not totally unfamiliar, two other Tartars pushed into the group of girls. Hessian bags were thrown over them, one by one; then brutally they were thrown to the ground and their feet tied.
CHAPTER FOUR
The wagon creaked and jostled over a pot-holed track. Its driver apparently knew the passes through the Carpathian’s well—knew which ones led to dead ends and which would take the band to the open plains beyond. The pass they traversed was a precipitous gorge—both sides soaring hundreds of yards above the wagon and its cargo. A startled goat darted up unclimbable ledges, sending a shower of rocks and debris down upon them. Behind the wagon sauntered the fifty or so Tartar horsemen upon their mounts—tired from the raiding of Lvov, but in high spirits. They argued and talked in their language, drinking from wine-filled bladders and hungrily ripping meat from smoked lamb carcasses that hung from their saddles. The horses used in the raid trotted along behind, nibbling at tufts of grass that sprouted amongst the stones. Many were still covered in Lvov blood.
Aleksandra lay unmoving inside her hessian bag. Thick twine wound around her feet, irritating her still-swollen ankle. Mottled light came through the material and a small rip allowed her to faintly see the warriors trotting around the wagon, and the rocky cliff face soaring high above. She could hear and feel the other girls that lay in similar bags beside her. They whimpered and cried, but Aleksandra felt no emotion.
The Tartar sword came arcing down, slashing through the collar of his cloak, through the skin, flesh and bone of his neck—separating his head from his body. His body crumpled to the ground. His arms and legs flailed violently and then he was still.
Still.
Aleksandra lay numbly, without expression inside her hessian cocoon.
His cloak. His outstretched hand. The pool of blood spreading across the cobbles of the square.
The blood.
Her blood.
A tear escaped her eye—running down her cheek, cutting a course through the fine hessian dust that covered her skin.
Dariusz too fell amongst the heap of corpses after several arrows thudded into his torso—front and back. His loving hazel gaze burned deep into her soul as the life drained away.
A second tear.
Hours passed—the vivid memories of slaughter playing over and over in her head; the rocking of the wagon and the heat of the hessian-clad bodies around her eventually sending her into a fragmented nightmarish sleep.
By nightfall the wagon and its entourage had entered a broad valley, deep within the mountain range. Several score of deerskin tents clustered around many large fires. War-horses roamed in the fields and grass filled ravines surrounding this nomadic village. And about the blazing fires sat an uncountable hoard of Tartar warriors—boisterous and spirited while ripping fresh venison from the bone with their teeth, and guzzling the best wine Lvov had to offer. The wagon pulled in to the center of the throng, close to the greatest bonfire.
Woken from distressing memories that all but consumed her, Aleksandra jerked in alarm upon hearing the shouts and laughter of the men. She peered through the tear in the bag at the scene. When the wagon lurched to a standstill, she spied a man making his way from the largest of the tents. He sauntered over to the wagon, smiling at the horsemen. Dark-skinned and dark-eyed, his face was not unpleasant—though a fine scar ran across one eye and toward his left ear. The Chieftain, whom Aleksandra surmised he must surely be, was tall compared to the rest of his men and cut an imposing figure dressed in black leather garments trimmed with black fox. He nodded at his men, obviously pleased by the number of captive-filled hessians in the wagon.
Aleksandra was gripped by the legs and pulled to the rear of the wagon. She yelped in fright, but then was silent as renewed terror seeped. She was thrown to the ground. Other girls were flung from the wagon tray, on top of her, and to the dirt around her. All were manhandled to their feet and the hessians ripped from over their heads. The light of the bonfire and torches shone brutally in Aleksandra’s eyes, but as her sight adjusted she saw the frightening spectacle that surrounded them. More than twenty of the village girls cowered with her—shielding their eyes from the glare of the flame with upheld arms.
Around their group stood the Tartars; almost instantly silent and intent on eyeing the girls.
The Chieftain strode toward them. Maryana and Tetyana clasped tight to each other and Aleksandra. Unchecked tears ran down Maryana’s cheeks, and Aleksandra’s own heart thumped erratically as she clung to them. The man inspected each of the girls in turn. When he came to Maryana he stopped and caressed her cheek. His dark eyes reflected the blaze from the fire with an intensity that made Aleksandra shiver. His countenance did not reveal derision or lust but, to Aleksandra’s confusion, a genuine thoughtfulness and warmth.
Next he came to Aleksandra. In some imagined defiance she locked her attention on the scar that cut across his cheek (thinking that he, too, could be hurt—even if only physically), as he regarded her face and hair and then slowly and purposefully inspected her body. His scrutiny lingered on the dirty, ripped and burnt clothing, as if he could see through them. His examination reverted to her face for several beats of Aleksandra’s heart, briefly mesmerized, before he turned to the band captain that had attained them, and nodded in palpable satisfaction.
Striding back to his tent, he stopped and glanced toward Aleksandra. With a grin that almost made him appear truly handsome, he disappeared inside.
Aleksandra and the girls of Lvov spent that night in a deerskin pavilion close to the central bonfire. There was no guard, nor any need for one, as they huddled in torment. The tent itself was adequate. The floor was covered in numerous animal skins and rugs. A low platform was set with fruits, salted meats and flasks of water and pungent goat’s milk. Outside, the rowdy ceremonies of the Tartar continued well into the night. Every now and then a drunken warrior would fall against the side of the tent—the girls recoiling further into one another’s arms.
Eventually the noise subsided and most of the girls were able to find some kind of anguished sleep; but not Aleksandra. With vigilance she held tight to Maryana and Tetyana. She cuddled and caressed them in silent torment—her mind completely void of any valid thought. No words could possibly suffice for what had happened... for what was happening....
Her attention flashed toward the opening of the tent when five intoxicated Tartars entered. One stumbled, falling into an inebriated, unconscious heap on top of the sleeping girls. The intrusion caused a wave of terror as the tent’s inhabitants scuttled to the farthest side. The men grabbed at them. A misshapen brute yanked at Aleksandra’s arm, placing a filthy hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, nudging close to lick her cheek with a cold, foul-smelling tongue.
“Not her, you fool. Do you want to die?” bellowed one of them in a language and tone that even Aleksandra could deduce.
Aleksandra was let go, thrown amongst the cowering bodies. She gulped in horror as four of her friends were pulled to the side—Tetyana amongst them. Savagely their clothes were ripped from their bodies and they were flung down onto the furs. The men were clumsy as they loosed their own tunics—exposing stubby lengths of hardened flesh that Aleksandra had only ever known by anecdote. The man that had grabbed at her was firmly ensconced on top of Tetyana. She had fainted, but that did not seem to worry him as he grunted and thrust into her. He slobbered over her face, neck and exposed breasts. His shoulders, covered in a thick mass of hair, heaved and shuddered until with one final violent thrust of his hips, he let out a gagging groan. He collapsed onto Tetyana—his body wracked by spasms—his muscular weight pushing her deep into the fur.
The incursion had taken no more than four minutes. As quickly as they had come into the tent, the men were gone.
Aleksandra could not move. She did not even dare to breathe.
CHAPTER FIVE
The captives spent several weeks in the confines of the valley. They were treated indifferently throughout the day, allowed to wander amongst the tents and kitchen fires, even stroll into the surrounding fields where the horses grazed. But all the while it was apparent to all, particularly Aleksandra, that they were prisoners. On top of the ridges surrounding the valley, sentinels could be seen keeping a close eye on all that occurred in and around this natural fortress.
Aleksandra knelt by the side of the brook that ran past the encampment and across the thickly grassed valley floor. With her sat Maryana and Tetyana. Further upstream, near a cascade of mountain water, the other girls from Lvov washed themselves and the bundles of clothing that had been provided by the Tartars. Tetyana was transfixed on the bubbling water. She had not spoken a word since that first night in the encampment, and Aleksandra felt somehow responsible for her... for her... loss. Maryana threaded a daisy chain absently—peering over the grassy lawn and up the slopes toward the snow-capped peaks that embraced the valley.
“This really is a beautiful place,” she said with a touch of grief.
“Yes, it is,” Aleksandra replied. One of the sentinels, high on a rocky outcrop, took aim with his cross-bow at a young doe, below his perch. His arrow sung through the air, slapping into the animal’s chest. It dropped to the ground, dead. “A very beautiful place....”
The two girls lay down in the grass, their bare feet dangling in the water. It was freezing, but Aleksandra rejoiced to some small degree in the sensation that proved she was still alive. The sky was an intense blue. Clouds toppled down from the top of the mountains to cross the roof of the valley.
“Do you think we will ever see Lvov again, Aleks?” Maryana whispered.
“No, and after what has happened there I could never go back.”
“But don’t you want to see your...,” Maryana bit her lip, and burst into tears.
Aleksandra rolled over, placed her arms around her companion, and kissed her on the cheek. Maryana wiped at the tears and, sighing heavily, cuddled into Aleksandra’s side.
“Come on.” Aleksandra stood and pulled both Maryana and Tetyana to their feet. “Let’s go for a walk and see where this brook leads.”
The girls linked arms and started along the water’s edge. Hearing a screech from high above, Aleksandra spotted a Lonely Eagle winging freely through the air. It soared high, circling the field in which they walked—searching for prey. She knew that its keen eyes and those of the guarding sentinels followed their every move. Several yards downstream the brook narrowed and the girls were able to step to the other side. The grass was thick and lush. Daisies sprung up everywhere, interspersed with lily of the valley and purslane. Up ahead, a grove of yellow, trembling poplar crowded around a slight bend in the waterway. Nearing the grove, Aleksandra once again glanced up into the sky. The eagle flew off at full speed toward the head of the valley and disappeared from her sight.
The grove followed the stream for several minutes’ walk, a myriad of yellow leaves fluttering in the morning breeze. They wandered amongst its trunks and spindly branches—approaching the center where it opened up into a sheltered clearing. Here the brook tumbled down a fall and broadened into a pond.
All three stopped, fascinated by what they saw.
Warily, Aleksandra urged her companions back into the protection of the poplars, but continued to gaze through the branches into the clearing and at the pond.
On a large flat shard of granite by the water’s edge sat the Chieftain of the Tartars. They had rarely seen him since their arrival, but here he was, alone. He had discarded his clothing and sat naked on the rock—the foaming water lapping just below his knees. He vigorously scrubbed himself with a chamois. His broad tan back glistened with cold mountain water. His muscled legs and arms flexed as he ran the cloth across his chest and under his armpits. Long black hair clung damply to hang down between his shoulder blades. Maryana gasped—digging her fingers deep into Aleksandra’s arm—in fascinated terror. The Chieftain stood up, throwing the chamois onto the rock, and slowly walked away from the girls into the deeper water of the pond. Aleksandra glanced to Maryana, noticing how she bit her lower lip, concentrating on the dark smoothness of the Chieftain’s skin, as it gradually submerged beneath the water. When the surface of the pond lapped around his buttocks, he dived into and under the water. Ripples crisscrossed the pond and back before his head and torso once again appeared. He let out a whoop of exhilaration, and waded back toward the rock, toward the girls. He lifted himself up out of the water and walked onto the grass of the embankment toward them. He shook himself—droplets of water flinging off his naked flesh.
All of the girls blushed. None of them had ever seen a fully naked man, and never so openly exultant, before.
But still he is just a man, thought Aleksandra, just a man like any other.
Maryana sighed as she reached out and placed her hand on the slender trunk of a trembling poplar. She took a step back.
A twig snapped.
The Chieftain turned to face them, his dark gaze piercing through the undergrowth and straight into their own. The trio screamed and turned to run back the way they had come through the grove and along the banks of the brook, toward the camp.
Behind them Aleksandra could hear his booming laughter.
* * * *
That evening, as the setting sun cast streaking shadows across the floor of the valley, the girls once again huddled within the confines of their tent. No man had set foot within it since that first horrible night, yet its occupants still spent sleepless hours worrying and praying to God. As the torches throughout the encampment were lit and the raucous noise of the dining barbarians escalated, the shadow of a man flickered on the outer skin of their pavilion. All of the tent’s inhabitants tensed as the shadow moved briskly toward the opening; recoiling as a hand reached in and pulled the flap to one side. Walking straight in amongst them, the Tartar warrior looked around at each of them in turn. He stepped toward Aleksandra and Maryana. They hugged each other tight. He signaled for them to stand and follow him. Maintaining an increasing grip on each other, they were led to the main bonfire where the Tartars ripped into stag and raw onions. Two deer were roasting on a spit—slowly turned by two young boys. All of the men were half-way drunk from wine-filled bladders.
They were led toward the largest of the tents.
The pavilion was extremely fine, spanning several yards across—the joined skins fixed to slender poplar trunks chopped from the surrounding groves. The marquee was peaked with a red triangle of material fluttering at its highest point. On the flag a black symbol was imperceptible to Aleksandra in the flickering light from surrounding torches. The Tartar warrior held open the front flap of skin and indicated for the girls to enter. They hesitated but, following a determined nod from the warrior, Aleksandra decided that they had best follow his orders. Inside was comparable to the tent they had been crowded into with the other Lvov girls. Animal skins covered the ground. Torches glowed from the central supporting pole. But there the similarity ceased. Off to one side, an opulently carved table, of a style Aleksandra had never seen, was laden with fruits and meats, breads and wine. And scattered over the animal skins were beautiful carpets and cushions of silk and fine linen—some with tassels of brightly colored thread.
The Chieftain sat at the farthest end of the table on a mound of cushions. He wore a white caftan elegantly trimmed with gold. Upon his head he wore a white linen headpiece similarly braided with the shimmering thread. He stood as the girls entered his pavilion, extending his hands in greeting.
“Welcome, young ladies. It is a pleasure to have you in my pavilion,” he said in their language.
Maryana blushed.
Aleksandra stiffened. “Why have you called us here? What are your intentions?”
“Intentions?” the Chieftain repeated, raising an eyebrow and laughing with such exuberance that Aleksandra’s Lisowska blood seethed. “My intentions are to eat, drink and enjoy the company of two beautiful ladies.”
“If you think that you can just use us for your own lust...” Aleksandra started, but her words were drowned out as the man in front of her again burst into a boisterous laughter that caused him to fall down onto the mound of cushions.
“How dare you, you arrogant....” Aleksandra launched herself toward the Chieftain. She threw herself on top of him, fists flying, her full rage engulfing her. With all her strength, she punched and scratched, words of hatred spewing from her lips, heedless of Maryana’s horrified cries.
And all the while the Chieftain continued his mirth, easily pushing her fists aside and seemingly impervious to her attempts to bite his arms.
“You killed my father, you animal. You killed my father.”
The Chieftain grasped her arms and pinned her body to his. She continued to squirm and fight.
“You killed my papa... you killed the only two men I have ever loved,” Aleksandra cried, bursting into hysterical sobbing.
Still the Chieftain held her—no longer laughing. He pulled her tight to his body.
“You killed my papa,” she whimpered.
As she sobbed, the Chieftain gently rocked her from side to side. Without loosening his grip, he placed his cheek upon her head, closed his eyes, and continued to smoothly sway her in his arms.
“Cry, my beauty. It will do you good,” he breathed softly in her ear.
He cradled Aleksandra in his arms as her sobbing endured. Maryana stood helplessly.
“Shhh,” the Chieftain cajoled Aleksandra, glancing up at Maryana.
Maryana, sorrow creasing her forehead, crept quietly over and sat beside the two huddled on the cushions. She stroked Aleksandra’s hair.
The torches burnt low as they sat, without a word, on the cushions of the opulent pavilion. The Chieftain persisted in encompassing Aleksandra with his arms—gently rocking her. The soothing motion made her wonder, in confusion, about the unexpected compassion of this man that had caused such grief and torment. Maryana now, too, seemed to feel comfortable enough to let her full body weight lean into his side while she caressed the flaming locks of red hair.
