Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER TWO

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 n***d 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 b****y 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 n***d 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.