Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

by Carol Marinelli

  The cars sped them the short distance back to the palace, where they were greeted by a worried Akmal. ‘I have spoken with the elders. They think the news must not come from you—that if I speak first…’

  ‘I will tell the people myself!’ Zafir was insistent—this was the last thing he could do for his people, and it was something he was brave enough to take on.

  ‘Please…’ Akmal pleaded. ‘They will not hear you; they will not be comforted—the shock, the fear will set in, and they will not take in your wise words. Please, Sire—let me tell them, let me speak to the press. And then, when they are demanding answers, needing more, you can tell them what will now happen…’ Akmal took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘What will happen?’ he begged.

  It was only now that the shock was wearing off, and acceptance was seeping in that Zafir realised Akmal was right: he was trying to think of the future. It was right that when the people needed leadership and guidance it should be Zafir who stepped in—that they heard from their King even if for the last time.

  ‘Make the announcement.’ Zafir gave the order. ‘Tell the press I will speak with the nation before sunset.’

  Akmal turned to Layla. ‘And your people?’ He forgot to add Your Highness when he addressed her, but no one either cared or noticed. Layla was touched that in his darkest moment Akmal had thought of her subjects too. ‘What will you tell them?’

  ‘The truth—that I am still their Queen and my husband is now Prince Zafir of Calista. He chooses not to be King.’

  ‘I told you, I am no Queen’s consort…’

  ‘As you wish…’ Layla shrugged. ‘You carry on with your princely ways…I will carry on with ruling Haydar—I wish you well.’

  She had so much dignity and strength, and she would be fine, just fine, without him. Zafir knew that.

  ‘Let us get this over with,’ Layla said. ‘I want to return to Haydar…’

  ‘To be with your people…’ Akmal nodded, but Layla shook her head and actually laughed.

  ‘Actually, no! Of course that will happen, but I think I might just look after myself first—perhaps a small holiday is deserved. I would like some time with my sisters.’

  As Akmal excused himself and left Layla moved to do the same. She just could not stay strong for a moment longer, so she turned to go—but he caught her arm. There was one thing he needed to know.

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ Zafir asked. ‘Is that why you need a holiday?’

  ‘No to the first,’ she said, ‘and no to the second.’

  If she carried on she would cry—and she had cried so much in the last few days that it would take a skilled make-up artist to prepare her for the cameras. ‘I am going to listen to the press conference, and then I will prepare my speech…’

  ‘I will come to Haydar soon…’ He had demanded this separation, Zafir realised, yet now it was here he could not stand to see her go. ‘In a couple of weeks—when you are—’

  ‘That will not be necessary.’

  ‘I promised you heirs…’

  ‘And you will deliver.’ It took every ounce of strength she could muster to step closer into his personal space, to let him breathe her scent again, to whisper in his ear and then afterwards look him in the eye. ‘Think of me when you do it.’

  He did not comprehend, so she explained further. ‘It’s the twenty-first century Zafir—Haydar might not yet produce its own doctors, but it has marvellous hospitals…fertility centres.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes,’ Layla said. ‘It is all or it is nothing.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  QUSAY was plunged into deep mourning.

  The announcement had been made, and the press had been too stunned to ask many questions. Even the television newsreader, when they cut back to him, had struggled to continue for a moment. Even the maids who had brought Layla her lunch were weeping.

  She was unable to stomach the palace any longer and, wanting to be close to the people, to gauge their reaction before she addressed her own, Layla put on her shawls and walked the sad streets. Women were wailing, grown men were crying, and there was a long queue forming outside the royal cemetery as the people lined up to pay their respects to Prince Xavian.

  There was no precedent.

  The flood of advisors could not even agree as to how to announce Zafir, what name to use…Reams of paper lay shredded as they attempted to write his speech, but Zafir refused their final offering.

  ‘I will speak without a script.’

  ‘You have to say—’

  ‘Who does?’ he interrupted, with a pertinent point. ‘Who has to say what? Am I their King? Am I Xavian today, or am I Zafir, addressing the people…?’ He waited for an answer but of course there wasn’t one.

  But a deposed king apparently still had to look good, and he found himself sitting in a small room down the corridor from the main office as dressers and groomers fussed around him.

  The dark shadows under his eyes were skilfully lightened, his jaw soaped ready for being shaved, and his hands were manicured…But he felt as if maggots were crawling over him, so he stood and shook them off.

  Surely the people should see him as he was now—see his devastation, not a waxwork image of the King he once was? Why did he have to look good as he broke their hearts? How could that possibly help? So he shooed them off and sat for a while in silence, trying to clear his mind. When he went into a bathroom, and washed the make-up from his face he stared at his unshaven jaw, at his red, bloodshot eyes.

  He had lost everything.

  Oh, he was still rich beyond his dreams.

  Had gained a family, brothers, a less burdensome title.

  And after this, the most difficult speech of his life, his real life—Zafir’s life—would resume.

  Yet he had lost her.

  Kings did not cry—but he was no longer a king. And yet still he wouldn’t go there—refused to give in to the blur before his eyes as he blindly pushed open a door and realised too late it was the wrong one. He heard her voice as she too lay back in the make-up chair and her advisors did what they always did: advised.

  ‘Stress his knowledge…’ a reedy voice said. ‘Stress that though he is not a king, he is a Royal Prince of Calista—mention the wealth of his land and the rare pink diamonds, the rich bloodline your new offspring will bring to Haydar, say that this union is still good for our people…’

  ‘I will speak my own words, Imran.’

  ‘Your Highness…’

  ‘You will leave me in peace to prepare my mind,’ Layla snapped.

  ‘But these are not ordinary times…’

  ‘Then an extraordinary speech is called for!’ Layla replied smartly, and Zafir felt just a hint of a smile on his lips as he heard that harsh, arrogant voice—just a tiny smile at the privilege of knowing her differently. ‘Which I am more than capable of preparing if, for a little while at least, you would just leave me alone.’

  And then it was just her and Baja, and Zafir knew he had to go, for his address to the people was soon. Gently he went to close the door—but then he heard her voice again.

  Not the Layla he had met, not the Layla he had got to know, but a different Layla—one he did not recognise.

  ‘I cannot do this, Baja….’ He heard the terror in her voice, and the sheer weariness.

  ‘You can, Your Highness…’

  ‘I cannot face going out there. I am so tired, Baja…’

  ‘Your people will be kind. They will…’

  ‘I don’t care about the people!’ she sobbed, and Zafir felt his heart still at the raw honesty in her voice. ‘Sometimes, Baja, sometimes, just for a little while, I actually want to care about me. Today it is not just about the King they have lost, or the arrangement that did not work, or the fact that they have to suffer still under the rule of a mere queen. It is about me too.’

  ‘Layla…’ Baja begged, dropping the title, wrapping her in her arms ‘I know—I know more than anyone how hard this is fo
r you…’

  She was scared, Zafir realised, and his instinct was to soothe her—but it was no longer his place.

  What was said next had him reeling.

  ‘I do not want…’ Layla wept.

  ‘You must not say it,’ Baja insisted.

  ‘It is the truth. Tomorrow, next week maybe, I will be strong again, but for now I do not want to be Queen.’

  ‘It will pass…’ Baja implored. ‘Remember that always this feeling passes. Some days you feel weak, and then you come back strong…’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Yes, this time…’ Baja insisted.

  ‘I am tired of being strong…’ Layla wept. ‘Tired of always having to be strong. Tired of being hard. I am tired of being Queen…’

  ‘You have no choice.’ Baja took the make-up puff and dabbed at her cheeks. ‘You have to be twice as strong as any man to rule Haydar.’

  She did not.

  Zafir knew that with him beside her she could be herself.

  ‘Layla!’ He watched her tense, watched her features snap back into place.

  ‘What are you doing here? Surely it is time for your speech?’

  ‘Your Highness!’ The adviser’s thin, reedy voice was back. ‘I need to inform you—’

  ‘Not now!’ she barked at Imran, appalled as to what Zafir might have heard. She was struggling to keep control. ‘I have told you I am busy. I have told you that I am to be left alone.’

  ‘Of course…’ Imran gave a small bow. ‘Except there has been an earthquake in Haydar…’

  Zafir watched her face pale.

  ‘Are people hurt? How many are injured…?’

  ‘We have only just got the news; there are no reports of injuries.’

  ‘Where?’ Layla asked. ‘In the town or in the villages…?’

  ‘It is early days yet…’ the aide advised. ‘I am sorry to trouble you at this difficult time…’

  ‘Of course you had to inform me. Forgive my curt response.’

  ‘One other thing…’ He held out a folder. ‘This document must be sent back to Haydar—the courier is waiting…’

  ‘Of course…’ Zafir’s eyes narrowed as he watched her struggle for composure, her hand shaking as she signed her name.

  ‘Do we know the size?’ Zafir asked her aide. ‘The size of the earthquake?’

  ‘As soon as I have more information I will let you know.’

  ‘Your Highness.’ Suddenly a frantic Akmal appeared. ‘What are you doing? It is time; the cameras are ready.’

  Zafir was being guided through the palace corridors and led to a vast desk, and as he sat he pushed away the powder puff, pushed away his own thoughts, even pushed away Layla as for the last time he addressed the nation as their ruler. This had to be right. This wasn’t about him. He had to be stronger than them, had to guide them through dark times, show them the way even when he was exhausted himself.

  That was the lonely job of being King.

  And Queen too…Xavian realised as the cameras rolled—Layla felt like this too.

  ‘People of Qusay…’ Zafir cleared his throat. ‘I ask for your full attention. I ask that you listen to my words, that you halt your grieving long enough to hear what I say, and I pray that I calm your fears.’ He glanced to Akmal, who stood as if on the edge of a cliff, abject terror on his face as his life’s work crumbled. Even Akmal’s wise eyes sought comfort, darting to Zafir’s. Taking a deep breath, Zafir spoke not from a learned speech but from the very bottom of his soul—and delivered the most important speech in Qusay’s history.

  ‘Prince Xavian lies with his parents. Many of you have paid your respects today. The royal cemetery closed before sunset, but it will be open from sunrise to sunset for another week—we understand your need to honour Xavian, and perhaps to forgive the King and Queen, as I too am hoping to do.’ He could see that Akmal’s eyes were closed, as if in prayer. ‘They tried to cheat death—that was their sin. But I am sure it was not their intention at the time to lie to their people. They were trying, I believe, not to cause this pain but to prevent it—impossibly, they wanted to keep their son, your future ruler, alive.

  ‘I did not, could not understand, and yet I am starting to. Because the realisation has given me a choice…To cheat death again. To live the lie. To spare you this pain. But the people of Qusay are strong…’ Zafir glanced to Akmal again, who opened his eyes and gave a slight nod. ‘Strong, proud people, and they would prefer the pain of the truth—I know that. Lies spread—lies invade like a cancer. More people would have found out. My brothers who have mourned me knew the truth…my wife…’

  Layla watched from another room, watched and wondered—because surely he should be King? Everyone was mesmerised listening to his assured, calming words.

  ‘I would have lied to you…’ He heard Akmal breathe in, knew that perhaps he had said the wrong thing, but pure truth was needed now. ‘People of Qusay, if I had thought there was no other way I would have begged for my brothers’ silence, I would never have told the Queen of Haydar, I would have taken this to my grave…But there is another path for you—the correct path—that should have been taken many years ago. King Yazan’s sons, Kareef, Rafiq and Tahir, are your Princes. As I speak to you now, the elders are reaching out to them to inform them of the change…Prince Kareef of Qais will be your new King. He is, as you know, already a strong and fair ruler, and I trust you, the people of Qusay, to him.’

  Pictures of Tahir, Rafiq and then Kareef flashed onto the screen. And Zafir walked out…stood in the corridor alone. Akmal came to him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Go back…’ Zafir said. ‘Tell me the response to the news…you have much work to do.’

  And then he saw her—walking swiftly past, her face like porcelain, her eyes beautiful, her hair gleaming. She walked with confidence, her eyes dusting over his as she briefly nodded her head in greeting.

  Calm, sophisticated, strong.

  Yet Zafir knew different.

  He watched her aides standing silently beside her, and then Zafir felt the weight of the jewel on his finger, felt the glow of the sapphire, and it alerted him in the same way his scars once had done. He watched as Imran gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod to one of the gathered journalists.

  Zafir was wise, and he knew. After first checking one small fact, he asked Akmal to fetch Imran. The aide approached with a frown on his face, but it was nothing compared to the black smile that Zafir wore. Imran took a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Three point eight.’ He watched as the aide looked puzzled. ‘The earthquake you were so keen to inform the Queen about measured three point eight.’

  ‘She likes to be kept informed.’

  ‘My shout could do more damage than that.’ Zafir’s voice was dark and low, ‘Let me see the document she signed.’

  ‘That is Haydar business.’ Imran’s blink was rapid.

  ‘Do you want me to shout?’ Zafir offered. ‘Do you want to find out the damage my shout can do?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the aide said quickly. ‘But it is a private document. You are only Prince…’

  ‘I am King,’ Zafir said, and though it should have been said first to her, it felt good—it felt fantastic to say those words. ‘I am King Zafir Al’Farisi of Haydar, and you would be foolish in the extreme not to hand me that document.’

  The aide could hardly argue with that, and he stood and watched as Zafir read the paperwork—stood and gulped as slowly the new King shredded it. Then, without a word, Zafir walked across the room to Layla, who was seated at the desk—ready to face this alone, capable of facing this alone, and utterly prepared to do so.

  Except she didn’t have to.

  ‘Bring me a chair so I can sit beside the Queen.’

  He watched her eyes flash in annoyance. Here was not the place to argue, perhaps, but as he sat beside her Layla spoke in low tones.

  ‘I would rather do this alone.’

  ‘It will be easier fo
r your people to hear the news with me beside you.’

  ‘As you said in your speech, it is the time for more truth—not less. If I am to rule alone, save your occasional visit or your attendance at important functions. If you are to carry on with your princely ways…’ She swallowed hard. ‘I am requesting that you leave my side.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  She was about to summon aides, to get up and leave rather than sit through the charade of him loving her. There would be time for false unity later. Except something in his voice made her turn around—and, live to air, the Haydar people did not find their Queen gazing out at them from their TV screens, instead she faced her husband as he spoke.

  ‘I would be proud and honoured to rule beside you—proud to help lead the people of Haydar.’

  There was a pause—an agonising pause—as Layla realised they were live on air. Her pale cheeks flushed as she turned to the camera, words sticking in her throat.

  ‘My subjects…’ she started, and then faltered. The tears in her throat were too big to allow her to continue—but this was the most important speech in her country’s history: there could be no tears, no weakness, no evidence of her emotions. And yet she couldn’t speak. Then somehow, just as the silence had gone for too long, she managed to find the words to continue. Her voice, without waver, addressed the room, telling her people that all would be well, that Haydar would grow and prosper. Her muddled brain struggled to take in Zafir’s declaration. She was too scared to believe, to trust that this time he meant it—that he wouldn’t take it from her again.

  ‘The Queen has agreed to questions.’

  She had thought they would be about Zafir, about his role, but instead a journalist sideswiped her.

  ‘You have agreed to postpone the building of the new teaching hospital?’

  Layla could only blink, turning her face to her aides, who stared fixedly ahead.

  ‘You signed the agreement this very day,’ the journalist continued boldly—and Layla felt herself crumble, knew in that instant what had happened. Because it was what she had feared for so long. Her aides and advisors had waited for her moment of weakness and pounced, and there was nothing, nothing she could do. Years of work on behalf of her people had just been dashed by the stroke of her own pen.