Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER ONE-1

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 c***k 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 b****y 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 b****y 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 b****y, 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 b****y, dead, leather-armor-clad Tartar tumbling straight toward her. All went black.

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