Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

by Carol Marinelli

  The scars on his wrists often hurt, and now they throbbed. The wounds felt so raw they could be new.

  Wounds.

  Little rocks were pelting him, he could feel the sweat on his forehead. He did not want Layla to see him like this.

  To hear the news like this.

  ‘I will see them alone.’ As Akmal swept off, he turned to Layla. ‘Go to bed.’ He saw the flash in her eyes at his curt dismissal. ‘I may join you…’

  ‘May join me?’ Layla frowned.

  ‘I don’t know how long this will take,’ Xavian snapped. ‘I do not want to disturb you. Do not wait up.’

  He left her standing there—could offer her no further explanation because he wasn’t sure himself what was coming.

  He was in dread.

  ‘There is nothing to weep over…’ Baja undressed her and put her in a nightrobe…‘Your fertile time is past—maybe you are already with child. It is better your body rests now than serves his needs each night.’

  ‘You don’t understand…’ Layla sobbed, because she couldn’t help it. He had done it again—offered her hope and then taken it back. ‘It was not like you said. It was better…it was more than I ever expected…’

  ‘Good…’ Baja guided her to the bed. ‘I am glad that he was considerate. But now it is time for you to rest. Do not lose your head, Layla…’ Baja knew well the wilful Queen’s impetuous ways, knew her passion and her imagination that, left unchecked, could surely only get her into trouble. ‘Your mind must be clear for ruling—not lusting…’

  ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘Whose wishes you must honour and respect…without question!’ Baja said as Layla opened her mouth to argue. ‘Even if you are Queen, in bed—in private—you are his wife.’ Baja was the only person who could speak like this with Layla—she was more of a mother than her own mother had been—and even if she did not like what she said, always she spoke wisely, and Layla knew she truly did care.

  ‘He said things would be different, that after the reception things would be different.’

  ‘And again he has proved otherwise,’ Baja pointed out.

  ‘I‘m confused…’ She was just so tired and bewildered from trying to work him out.

  ‘Men do that.’ Baja smiled. ‘They know what to say, to do, to make our bodies succumb, and that is okay so long as you only lose yourself for a little while. But never, not for a moment, can a Queen lose her head and her heart belongs to her people. Those last words are yours, Layla.’

  They had been.

  Before she had met Xavain those had been her very words, but things were not so simple now.

  ‘So I cannot love my husband?’

  ‘Of course you can love him—but you must stay safe and remember that he is King first. His heart will be with his people.’

  But she wanted it with her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HE DID not want this.

  Xavian did not want this conversation to happen…

  He closed his eyelids, pressed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. He was King, he was strong, he could deal with anything—even the truth…

  He pulled in air, straightened his shoulders and then left his study. He nodded to Akmal to open the door, but as his vizier walked in behind him Xavian turned.

  ‘Alone.’

  Akmal did not have the nerve to argue, he could sense the King’s volatile mood, but he felt like a cat put out in the rain. Usually he sat in with international dignitaries, and the King and Queen of Adamas were important people, relations must be forged…and how he wanted to know what was going on.

  The greetings were semi-formal—hands shaken, seats taken, and a moment or two of polite conversation—and then it was Zakari who cleared his throat. His wife, Queen Stefania, was wringing her hands nervously in her lap.

  ‘We would like to thank you and the people of Qusay for your gift on the birth of our son,’ Zakari said.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ Xavian responded. Usually he would have little or no idea what gift had been sent, his staff would have taken care of such details, but in this case Xavian had taken more interest. A stunning eighteen-carat emerald had been cut and polished and sent to celebrate the birth. ‘How is your son?’

  ‘Zafir is doing well.’ Xavian could feel Zakari’s eyes on him, and he kept his face impassive, but hearing Zakari say the child’s name brought a fresh surge of unease. Almost a confirmation of why he was here. ‘Do you know anything of our history?’ Zakari asked.

  ‘But of course…’ Xavian duly answered. ‘Two islands, Aristo and Calista, that have been reunited by your marriage to form the Kingdom of Adamas. That is why it is such a pleasure to speak privately with you—Layla and I have high hopes for Qusay and Haydar’s future, and it will be interesting to speak—’

  ‘I was referring to my family history,’ Zakari interrupted. ‘Do you know much about it?’

  ‘Some.’ Xavian’s voice was suddenly hoarse, and he poured himself some water.

  ‘My mother died and my father remarried.’

  ‘I see.’ Xavian flashed a non-committal smile.

  ‘He brought five sons with him to the marriage. Anya, Queen of Calista, could not have children, so she adopted us…the five sons…’

  ‘I am aware,’ Xavian said. ‘Perhaps we could discuss how the Calistan people—?’

  ‘When we were boys two of my brothers—the twins, Aarif and Kaliq—built a raft. They were playing a game; they wanted to sail…’ Zakari ignored Xavian’s attempt to change the subject, his voice just a touch louder, his story clearly well rehearsed. His wife pulled out a handkerchief and Xavian just sat there, staring at the wall beyond the King’s shoulder. ‘Our youngest brother, Zafir, who was only six at the time, begged to join them on their adventure. They were foolish to allow him to of course, but teenagers often are foolish…’

  ‘Your Highness.’ It was Xavian who spoke louder now. ‘With all due respect, it is late’

  ‘They were captured by pirates…’ Zakari’s words were relentless and Xavian stood.

  ‘I must bid you goodnight.’

  ‘Their wrists were bound for two days and nights.’ Zakari stood too. ‘Zafir managed to get his undone and free his brothers. Aarif was shot in the face as they tried to escape—he fell into the water. Kaliq dived in to save him, but the raft, with Zafir on board, drifted off…’

  Xavian refused to be polite now. He walked off, crossed the living room, swinging around angrily when Zakari dared—dared to halt him by grabbing at his arm. ‘Please listen.’

  ‘I have heard enough…’ Xavian was sweating, yet his voice was calm. He was talking kindly, as he would to a mad man who persisted with his delusions. ‘My wife is tired; she is waiting for me…’

  ‘Zafir was never seen again. We have searched endlessly…’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Xavian said patiently, but Zakari was not listening. Stefania was crying in the background as he moved to lift the sleeve of Xavian’s robe. Xavian’s hand halted him. ‘I must leave.’

  ‘Please…’ Zakari’s strong voice broke. ‘Please, just listen. At Stefania’s coronation you helped my wife when she felt faint. She saw the scars on your wrist, she recognised your eyes—Zafir, I recognise you…’

  ‘Enough.’ Xavian tried to pull back his wrist, but he couldn’t. He was as strong as Zakari, but it wasn’t strength that stopped him moving. It was strength that kept his wrist there, strength that anchored him as finally he faced the truth…

  ‘These are the marks on my brothers’ wrists…’ Zakari’s black eyes actually filled with tears as he saw the same thick scars his brothers wore.

  ‘Impossible…’ Xavian said, except now there was question in his husky voice. ‘How it could be possible?’ he asked. ‘I could not have just appeared.’

  ‘Xavian…’ For the first time Stefania spoke. ‘Do you remember when I felt faint at the coronation—you helped me…?’

  Xavian nodded. He didn’
t resist, he didn’t persist, he just stood there and faced it.

  ‘It took time to remember, but when it had all died down I remembered the scars on your wrists, that when looking into your eyes I felt as if I recognised you. You have the eyes of your brothers.’

  Xavian had never cried in his life, and determinedly he did not cry now as the Queen spoke on. He just stood there and took it as his world fell apart. As everything he possessed, everything he knew, slipped away.

  ‘I was wary of approaching Zakari. It just did not seem possible that you, ruler of Qusay, were somehow his brother. I did some research—for months I have been reading about your family, about you. I read old newspapers, read how there was only one heir, that the people of Qusay were concerned because he was never seen, that there were rumours he was an ill child.’

  ‘I was sick…’ Xavian said. ‘I had seizures. For my early childhood I was—’

  ‘I found an article, a report that you were believed close to death…that was two days after Zafir went missing. The paper reported that a reputable source inside the palace had said that the people of Qusay were to prepare for bad news…’

  ‘I was a delicate child.’

  ‘The next day the paper recanted. The palace doctor made a speech and said that yes, indeed, the young prince was gravely ill, but was in time expected to make a full recovery. In just a few hours a delicate, sickly child, close to death, was suddenly expected to make a full recovery…There are no photos of Xavian as a child, save one official portrait where he is sleeping…’

  ‘No.’ He tried to discount it, and now he did resist. ‘Too many people would know…’ He shook his head. ‘No…’ He was angry now, angry at his confusion. He wanted this to go away, except it wouldn’t.

  ‘Please, I know the distress this must cause you…’ Stefania begged.

  ‘You know nothing,’ Xavian sneered, wrenching open the door. Akmal practically fell inside, and judging from his pale face he had clearly heard at least some of what had been said.

  ‘Is this true?

  ‘Of course not, Sire. This is preposterous, a lie…’ Xavian might not like Akmal very much, but he never doubted that he spoke the truth—and from his outrage he knew that he was not lying now. ‘Yes, there was a time when you were gravely ill. I was not as senior then, but I did speak with the elders. The doctor was at your side night and day…and slowly you recovered. It was a miracle, really; you were so sick…’

  He stared up at the strong, muscular frame of his King and blinked, over and over, just stood and blinked as his world too started to crumble. ‘No…’ Of course he denied it, because he just couldn’t comprehend it. ‘As if they could replace him…’ He shook his head at the impossibility. ‘No. I was here. I would know…’ And then he blinked again, opened his mouth to say something. But there was just an appalled silence for the longest time. And then he got angry. For the first time Akmal was rude to royalty, and he pointed his finger accusingly at the rulers of Adamas. ‘Of course it is not true. They lie…they refuse to accept that Zafir is dead…’

  ‘It is true.’ Xavian’s voice was strong even as everything collapsed beneath him, as he freed the truth that for months, perhaps years, had been trying to escape from his very soul. He stared into his brother’s black eyes and recognised his own, and then looked down to the thick scars on his wrists that sometimes seemed to burn him at night. ‘Since the coronation I have known something was wrong. My parents did not want me to go. Now I know why.’

  ‘How long have you known the truth?’ Zakari asked, tears in his eyes for his brother’s pain.

  ‘About five minutes,’ Xavian admitted. ‘But it has been growing inside for a while. I thought I was going insane. I could hear children laughing…I can remember chasing a bird in the palace…’

  For the first time Zakari almost smiled.

  ‘I remember that too.’

  ‘My mother?’ That face he had recognised in his dreams flashed before him, and he would have given up all he had with ease just to see her. ‘Anya—my stepmother…?’

  ‘She died.’ Zakari’s face was pale, because only now was he glimpsing his brother’s horror. For years he had searched, had prayed, had dreamt of this reunion, but he had never envisaged this pain. ‘Our father too.’

  Xavian was angry, and Akmal was the closest. ‘Of course you knew—you all knew…’

  ‘No!’ he pleaded. ‘I was not vizier then…I would never lie to you.’ And then Akmal broke down and his own truth emerged. ‘I did question things many years back—but I was silenced, Sire…’ He wept. ‘One night we were sure we had lost you…’ He corrected himself then, as Xavian closed his eyes. ‘Or rather that we had lost Prince Xavian. But the next day the doctor said you still clung to life. A few weeks later I saw the Queen, walking with you in the gardens. You were still weak, in a chair…’ Akmal wept at the memory that had at the time cheered him so. ‘It was the first time I had seen you in years. Always you were shut away, and to see you, awake…’

  ‘Did I talk?’

  ‘No…’ Akmal admitted. ‘You were silent for a long while, except with your parents…We thought the seizures had damaged your brain, but you got stronger, and you were so clever, but never a happy child…’

  Was it any wonder?

  ‘King Xavian,’ Akmal pleaded, ‘this cannot get out. Think what it will do to your people…’

  ‘Look what it did to ours,’ Zakari challenged. ‘To our family too—we lost a brother, a son, a royal prince…He must return to the people who love him, who have mourned him needlessly.’

  But Xavian wasn’t listening. He wanted answers—not just for himself, but for the real Xavian.

  ‘Summon the palace doctor.’

  He arrived a short while later, knelt and pleaded for mercy as his sins caught up with him.

  ‘It was the King’s order. I was his doctor…’

  ‘You are my doctor too!’ Xavian’s eyes flashed black with hate. ‘I came to you because I thought I was going insane—those dreams…’

  ‘The pills should have stopped them.’

  ‘They were my memories!’ Xavian roared. But for now he wasn’t thinking of punishment—all he wanted was the truth.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PAIN should be private. Some allowances made. Yet soon they would be here.

  As Queen Inas Al’Ramiz walked, dazed, along the beach she thought of what now had to happen…

  Advisors.

  Cameras.

  Journalists.

  Elders.

  More advisors.

  And, worse, there would be questions: How long had the young prince been ill? Was this why the public never saw Xavian? Would King Saqr Al’Ramiz now abdicate? Should he make way for his brother, Sheikh Yazan, to rule Qusay, along with his wife, Sheikha Rihana, who had borne three live, healthy sons, with eyes as blue as Xavian’s? But there the similarity ended.

  How Inas’s jealous heart privately loathed their hardiness. Kareef, the eldest—so strong and forceful with his reckless ways. Rafiq—so spoilt, so vigorous and so indulged. And then there was Tahir…such a wild, untamed child.

  How Inas had had to paint on her smile at functions and gatherings as Rihana fussed and cooed over her robust brood, while poor Xavian ‘rested’.

  ‘Oh, Xavian!’

  Inconsolable with grief, Inas stumbled along the beach—she had pleaded with the King, with the palace doctor, for this fraction of time before the world invaded. ‘Let me mourn, let me grieve, let me be a mother and not the Queen for just a while longer.’

  She had held his little frame till dawn, till he had been prised from her arms—had begged for this brief reprieve on the condition that when she returned the King’s chief advisor would be informed, and then his aides, and then the palace staff and then the people.

  There was direct access to this private cove from the senior royal suite—stone steps were carved into the shell-studded and jewelle
d walls of the palace and they led to this rare haven—and Inas had, blind with tears, made her way to the secluded beach, the one place in Qusay where she could just be. No staff were permitted, no cameras could peek—here she could be herself. Here she could wander with a ravaged, tear-streaked face and scream out to a God who hadn’t listened.

  ‘Xavian…’ She howled his name—felt his soul passing through her, ripping her flesh as it left.

  She had loved him so much, would rather lie down and die this minute than carry on living without him.

  But she was Queen.

  Sedated, she would stand beside her King as he did the honourable thing and abdicated because of her failure to produce an heir. Or, again, they would promise to the people of Qusay, via a spokesperson, that her aching womb would soon produce…

  Deranged, Inas wandered, raging at the ocean, at the sky, the sand, the sun, that all carried on when her baby was gone.

  She had been told this day would come—the doctor had told her hours after delivery that her desperately awaited son was too weak, too damaged to survive.

  Fundamentally a mother, Inas had simply refused to listen, and had spent the next seven years in denial, nurturing her ailing child and shielding him from the gaze of a hungry public. Modern medicine, rare herbs and ancient wisdom had all been frequent visitors to the palace—but to no avail. The seizures had ravaged his body more frequently, Xavian’s slender frame had buckled more and more under the sheer effort of staying alive, and of course the rumours had flared—the whispers that the young Prince was sick, weak, and would never be fit to be King had intensified.

  They had all been rebuffed.

  He would get better. He would be strong.

  Inas had been insistent. Had begged Saqr to believe, as she had, that one day Xavian would be well, would rule the Kingdom of Qusay. She had guarded him like a mother lion—yet it hadn’t been enough.

  Death, the thief that had slipped into the palace tonight, had taken her baby…