Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

by Carol Marinelli

  She ached to hold him again, ached for him to be still warm…

  And now she had to go back. Back to the palace, to face a world without him—except she wouldn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  Charging into the ocean, she begged it to claim her—wanted it to take her if it meant she could be with Xavian.

  ‘I miss you, my baby!’ she screamed. ‘Give me my baby….’ she begged, even while knowing it was worthless. After all, she had prayed for years for healthy heirs, for children. In years of trying just one child had been produced, and he had now been ripped from her arms.

  There was no God.

  She felt the pull of the ocean, felt the waves dragging her out, and then she panicked—realised only then what she was doing. She was Queen, a ruler—there had to be hope, there had to be belief. What lesson was she teaching her people if she let the ocean claim her?

  ‘Ana asifa…’ she whimpered as she made her way back to shore. ‘I am sorry, so sorry. Please show me—show me my path—show me what to do…Show me…’

  And there he was…

  A shadow on the beach, his dark skin blending with the wet sand, his clothes strewn and torn like seaweed…

  She was surely seeing things…

  Still waist-deep in the ocean, wading through the crashing waves, Inas knew she must be hallucinating—for there, washed up on the beach, was her child…

  It was an illusion, she told herself as she ran towards him. Grief must have driven her insane. Yet the closer she got, the more real he became: thick black curls just like Xavian’s after his evening bath, long dark lashes fanning his sallow cheeks. And as she knelt she saw the flutter of his chest, the flicker of black eyelashes, and realised that he was alive.

  His wrists were bloodied and wounded, his face sunburnt and bruised, yet despite his state, despite the wounds, he was beautiful—full plum lips, flesh and muscle on his bones. When she pulled his lids open she saw eyes that were inky black, not the signature blue of Al’Ramiz lineage, but Inas disregarded that detail…

  This was Xavian, had he been born strong…

  God had answered her prayers—had shown her her path—this child had been sent for her!

  Scooping him up, she ran to the palace…Time was of the essence, as the deadline to reveal Xavian’s death was looming.

  She knew deep down this was not Xavian, yet hope was flaring as she stumbled up the stone steps, clutching the body to her bosom until the startled doctor who was still shrouding Xavian pulled the limp child from her arms.

  ‘Xavian…’ Inas begged as the doctor worked on him.

  ‘Inas…’ The King had tears in his eyes as he pleaded with his wife to see sense. ‘This is not Xavian—this is the Sheikh Prince Zafir of Calista. It has been on every news bulletin, in all the papers, I rang King Ashraf myself, to offer the Kingdom of Qusay’s prayers….’ He realised his wife had been so immersed in their son’s declining health that she hadn’t heard or taken in the terrible news. ‘Three of the Princes were swept out to sea, where they were captured by pirates. Two have escaped, but young Zafir is still missing—they have been searching for him for days…his mother is desperate…’

  ‘She is not his mother…’ Inas snarled. ‘She married the King and took on his sons—how can it be fair that she has five and I have none? She never gave birth. I did…’

  ‘Inas…’

  ‘Who would know?’ Inas said—because to her the solution was simple. ‘We will nurse him back to health, he can be our son, and one day he will be Qusay’s ruler…’

  ‘Our son is dead.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be.’ She ached, yearned, needed to be a mother, and God had just shown her how. ‘Don’t you see? My prayers have just been answered! This was meant to be!’

  ‘Inas, please…’ the King begged her. ‘This is a Calistan Royal. If we return him to his people it will do our nation good. We will be looked on favourably and it will forge—’

  ‘How can you think of connections at a time like this?’ She was demented with fury. She slapped her King as he took her last hope away, and Saqr stood stunned as she hit him again—not with her hand this time, but with words aimed straight at his proud heart. ‘Do you really want Yazan to rule? Are you saying you want that tyrant to be King of Qusay?’ He had never seen his wife like this. Usually gentle and meek, she was the antithesis now—but, more than that, on this solemn day she was letting hope flare for him, the King, too. He did not want to abdicate, did not want his sadistic brother Yazan to be King, did not want to relinquish his birthright…

  Maybe this was the way? Maybe Inas was right and this was meant to be?

  ‘His eyes are not blue…’ Saqr said, his voice tentative. ‘How would we explain that his eyes are not blue…?’ And Inas felt a surge of relief as she realised that, instead of refusing her desperate dream, her King was trying to work out how to fulfil it.

  ‘There have been no portraits,’ Inas said quickly. ‘The only photo released shows him sleeping…’

  ‘Could we?’ The King looked to the doctor, who shook his head.

  ‘Ethically, I cannot allow this…’ Dr Habib had put a drip in the limp child and wrapped him in blanket, his face grave with concern. ‘We must inform the Calistan palace at once.’

  Inas pulled her husband aside, forgetting rules, forgetting how she usually demurred. Her baby was dead so there were no rules—here was her chance, her chance to hold a child in her aching arms again, to be a mother. ‘So, we must inform our people that your brother Yazan will be King.’ Inas stared at her husband and watched him flinch. Oh, Yazan put on a good façade, but Saqr had told her of the cruel streak in his brother, his true unsavoury nature that belied the man on show. ‘Do you want that for your people?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then tell the doctor that this will happen.’ She stood her ground. ‘Make it happen—if not for me, then for your people.’

  Inas held her breath, shivering and wet and still numb with grief. She watched as her husband, the rightful King, granted her dearest wish.

  ‘You are this royal family’s doctor,’ the King said. ‘And I understand this places you in a difficult position. You will have to visit daily, several times a day, to heal this child, which will necessitate you cutting down on your other work…of course you will be suitably compensated…’

  Everyone had scruples, but when the King named a figure Dr Habib, who had three children at a private European school, and a wife who loved to travel well, felt his scruples start to wane.

  ‘I cannot…’ the doctor started, and yet he wavered—and not just over the money. He was also too scared to deny his King.

  ‘Can this be done?’ the King asked again and, pale and sweating, the doctor nodded.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Know so!’ the King demanded. ‘Tell me how.’

  ‘The people know the Prince is sick. If we keep him hidden for a while longer, it will cause no alarm…’

  ‘Are there rumours of Xavian’s death?’ the King asked, demanding an honest answer.

  ‘There are rumours that he is gravely ill…’Dr Habib said. ‘As this child is.’

  ‘Speak with the advisors…’ the King said. ‘Tell them that Xavian was taken ill in the night, that more intensive care is required, but that we are hopeful that in time…with proper care…the Prince will make a full recovery.’

  ‘What about Xavian?’ asked the doctor. ‘What will I do with your son…?’ He had expected Inas to start wailing again, but she was nursing the child on the bed, tending to the wounds on his wrists, loving him as she had loved her own son—and Dr Habib saw true denial at work.

  ‘You will deal with him.’

  The young Prince was laid to rest and, sick with guilt, Dr Habib made his way back to the palace to check on his patient—just in time to see Sheikh Prince Zafir open his eyes for the first time.

  ‘Ommah?’ The confused child wept for his mother, his eyes struggling to fo
cus, confused and delirious and scared.

  ‘Ommah is here, Xavian,’ Inas crooned—and how delicious those words sounded, even as the child wept harder.

  And finally, a couple of weeks later, a little bit stronger, his lips redder, his body plumper, one afternoon the young Prince awoke and his eyes fixed on the Queen and the future of Qusay was assured.

  ‘Ommah!’

  The brainwashing was complete.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘WHERE is he?’ Xavian demanded. He could feel cold nausea drenching him. ‘Where is the real Xavian…?’

  ‘Your Highness…’ Akmal was wringing his hands. ‘Better to let him rest…’

  ‘Where does he rest?’ Xavian demanded. ‘In the royal cemetery?’ He was almost dizzy. ‘I want to go there…’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Akmal, arrange transport…’

  The royal cemetery was close to the palace, at the next headland, a short drive away. Gated and guarded, it was open to the public only occasionally—the last time had been the day after his parents’ burial, and Xavian was not looking forward to returning, but it was imperative he go now…

  ‘He is not there.’ The doctor was so pale it looked as if he needed a doctor.

  ‘Then where…?’ Xavian demanded of Akmal. ‘You will tell me where he is.’

  ‘Sire, I know nothing of this…’

  ‘Akmal speaks the truth…’ The doctor interrupted Akmal’s plea. ‘No one does. It was between your parents and me.’

  ‘My parents?’ Xavian’s voice was like the crack of a whip. ‘They were not my parents. Where is Xavian?’

  ‘They asked that I take care of things…’ The doctor was on his knees, begging for forgiveness that could never come. ‘When orphans die, there is a place on the edge of the desert…’

  ‘The paupers’ cemetery?’ Xavian bellowed.

  Akmal again broke with protocol and urged the King to be quiet, but Xavian was having none of it. ‘You are telling me that the Royal Prince Xavian was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave? Take me now.’

  He was reeling, angry, confused—he shrugged off Zakari and Stefania, he spat at the doctor, and it was Akmal who drove. He felt as if he was the one who had been buried, and when they reached the graveyard he stood and stared at himself, at a life, a person that had been so easily discarded—a child who had been buried and forgotten.

  ‘Your Highness…’ Akmal pleaded with him to return to the car, for this awful night to be over, for the truth to return to the bottle so he could push the cork back in. ‘King Xavian…’ he begged. ‘We must—’ Only he never got to finish.

  ‘This is Xavian.’ His black eyes held Akmal’s and he saw the fear in him, as only then did the true horror of the lie unfold. ‘And he will be named and honoured—he will have a royal grave…’

  ‘No…’ begged Akmal. ‘If this gets out, if the truth is revealed…Do you not see what it will do to our people? Not only will there be no King, but they will lose the loving memories they have of your parents. Sire, this will kill the spirit of Qusay. We must live the lie. Please, I beg you to reconsider—think this through when you are calm.’

  As they drove through the black night, Xavian realised he did have to think it through.

  It was all he could agree to.

  He walked along the beach where he had been washed up, and now he understood.

  That speck he had sought on the horizon had been himself.

  The ocean he had loathed so much had brought him to Qusay.

  He had always known.

  Somewhere, locked inside, it had always been there, tapping away, trying to get out. He walked along the beach where he had been delivered that fateful morning to his mother, to Inas…He stared out at that vast ocean and wondered how he, a child alone, had survived—and for a terrifying moment he wondered if it would have been easier to have died. In many ways he had. He had his identity, everything, ripped from him. Even his age was different. Zakari had told him his birth date—he was twenty-eight, not twenty-nine.

  And the real Xavian, the child he mourned now, was not even his brother.

  Everything that he was, everything he knew, had gone.

  Xavian, King Xavian, son of Inas and Saqr—all of that was gone.

  So who was he?

  Years were wiped out—his childhood gone. Every word of praise, every time he had been told he was loved, it had not been said to him, but to a ghost.

  The people of Qusay would be shattered—and there was his wife…

  Was Layla even his wife? She had married someone who did not exist.

  Always Xavian had felt it was duty that made him different, always he had stood apart—arrogant, some said; aloof, said others. There had been no friends, no socialising even with other royals, apart from brief visits with cousins—and now he knew why.

  Slowly over the years he had been brainwashed.

  He could see Layla walking along the private beach towards him, still dressed in her nightgown, barefoot, her face swollen from crying. The rising sun was behind her, and he could see her silhouette thought the flimsy fabric. He would have killed for escape, to lie her down on the sand and shower that tear-stained face with kisses.

  They had made love—more than that, they had found love. For the first time Xavian had let a woman in to a place in his heart, only to shut her out now—for if he did as Akmal pleaded, if he did choose to live this lie, then he must do it alone. He could not burden her with the weight he might carry.

  The truth would shatter her and her people, his people, and ruin so many lives—his life too, for he wanted to be King. He had been groomed to be King, and now that he was he relished it—the decisions, the power, his Kingdom, his people. He was a good King, a very good King, and he didn’t want to walk away from it.

  Could he live a lie?

  ‘Come to bed, Xavian…’ She had never once pleaded, never begged, but she was scared now—scared of what she didn’t know. She had spent a sleepless night, walked the palace corridors listening to cars driving away and raised voices. Baja had shooed her back to bed, but still she had not slept. Walking out to the balcony to get some air, she had seen Xavian pacing the beach, his royal robes wet and sandy, billowing behind him, his kafeya gone. Even from a distance she could sense his anger, his pain, and she wanted to share it. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Then don’t talk,’ Layla compromised. ‘But come inside—come to bed…’

  ‘I want to be alone.’

  ‘No.’ She refused to hear it. ‘We said we would talk after the reception—that we would discuss things, that we would share…’

  ‘That day can wait,’ Xavian said. ‘Akmal is packing.’ She was holding his wrists, trying to make eye contact, but he didn’t look at her. ‘I have been invited to stay as a guest at Calista.’

  ‘That is good…’ she reasoned. ‘We can have some time—’

  ‘Just me.’ Xavian interrupted. ‘Only I have been invited.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Layla…it has been good.’ He peeled her warm body from his. ‘But as we both know this is business arrangement: you rule Haydar.’ She was shaking her head, refusing to believe that so soon he could take all his promises back. ‘Right now there is an opportunity for Qusay to improve relations with Calista and Aristo—the Kingdom of Adamas has long been out of bounds to us, and it will be good for our people in the long run…’

  ‘But not good for us.’ They had been married just a week, the most wonderful week of her life, and he had told her things would be different, had made love to her over and over. She had been so deeply intimate with him, and yesterday he had shown her how different, how much better their lives could be, and now he was ripping it all away.

  ‘Yesterday you promised that soon we would share things…’ she insisted. ‘Xavian, let me be there for you.’

  He would not do that to her. It was better that she hated him—because soon, very soon, he might have to tell
her and his country the truth, or live with a permanent lie between them.

  There was nothing that could be salvaged—they simply couldn’t win.

  ‘Please don’t go without me, Xavian.’

  ‘Do you know what I liked about you, Layla? Do you know what made you different?’

  She just stood there.

  ‘Begging does not suit you. I preferred it when you kept me guessing.’

  He could see her shape beneath her nightdress. Her face was beautiful without make-up, her breasts full and ripe, and despite his bold statement of earlier this was not mere business. He was hard now. He wanted to drag her down on the sand beside him and make love to her right there. He tried to battle with his mind, which was urging him to kiss her. He stared at her mouth, and instinct—impulse, anger—had his hands in her hair. Had him pulling her face towards him, wishing, wishing he had never found out the truth, had lived in the bliss of ignorance, where he could properly taste her.

  She jerked her head back. That he could shame her and then kiss her enraged her so—that he thought she was a puppet to play with, to dance to his will—well, she was better than that, stronger than that…So she stepped out of the dance, so she could claim back herself, and he knew then that it was over.

  ‘I need to go to Calista,’ Xavian said. ‘Alone.’

  And Layla thought she understood.

  ‘Is this something that will benefit the people of Qusay only? Something you would not like to share with Haydar?’

  He did not answer her, and Layla decided Baja was right: it was all about duty for him—and so it must be for her.

  ‘Just as there was a formal function here in Qusay, my people will expect the same. I did not shame you, and yet now you ask me to return without my groom…to become a bride who does not bring her husband home even for a few nights…’

  ‘People know it is business…’

  ‘They do not need it rubbed in their faces.’

  ‘We will say we are in the desert…’ Finally a small compromise. ‘You will remain here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Or you can spend time in the desert until I return…’