Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER THREE-3

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 c*****e, 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. l*****g 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.