The Fierce and Tender Sheikh

by Alexandra Sellers

  “I—I didn’t know. I just knew I had to tell you. But I couldn’t. And then…I told Mazin.”

  He stopped then, and drew her into his arms, and she rested her head against its natural home. It beat strongly, reassuringly, under her ear. Above, the moon sailed serenely free of the cloud that had hidden its face, and glinted off the pool, the tumbling fountain, and the great golden dome in the distance.

  “And this is what kept you from me,” he said after a long silence in which their hearts spoke without words. “But now you will not be kept from me any longer. Now you will be my wife. I love you, Shakira. In my heart you are my wife already. Tell me that it is so for you, too.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, and the last weight lifted from her heart, and like the moon, it soared free.

  Nineteen

  ISLANDERS TO GO HOME

  Bagestan will begin the repatriation of the Gulf Island refugees this week, it was announced today. The refugees were kept waiting in refugee camps around the world while the situation of the Aswad turtle was resolved. The islanders’ cause had been taken up by Princess Shakira of Bagestan, herself a long-time refugee. The Princess is reported to be delighted by the news.

  “Well, Marta, it’s another royal wedding in Bagestan,” said Barry. “We seem to be making a habit of this.”

  “Yes, and a fabulous triple wedding, too, Barry! We haven’t seen one of those since the handsome Princes of Barakat all were lost to panting womanhood in one day.”

  “I don’t think you ever recovered from the blow.”

  “Well, it’s your turn to suffer now! Three princesses of the al Jawadi family agreed to exchange their vows—in one joint ceremony—with three of the handsomest Cup Companions out there, and believe me, that is saying something!”

  “Tell us about the princesses, Marta.”

  “Well. They’re all direct descendants of the old Sultan of Bagestan, Hafzuddin al Jawadi, Barry, but none of them knew it until after the bloodless coup we in the West call the Silk Revolution, but in Bagestan people mostly call the Return. Because, as you know, the royal family was in mortal danger from Ghasib’s assassins for years, and had to flee to other countries and live under assumed names until the Sultan’s grandson regained the throne.

  “Princess Noor you’ll remember because she hit the headlines a few months ago. She fled from her own wedding minutes before the vows were exchanged, provoking delicious speculation. Then she and her fiancé disappeared, and we had the terrible discovery that his plane was missing in a thunderstorm. Nearly everybody assumed the worst, but Princess Noor and Bari al Khalid were finally found shipwrecked on one of the deserted Gulf Islands. It was revealed that the reason for her flight was her fiancé’s grandfather’s eleventh-hour withdrawal of his permission for the marriage. Reason—some ancient family feud. Bari al Khalid rejected his grandfather’s orders to marry a woman from another family, and the old man threatened to disinherit him. But when he died shortly afterwards, his will revealed that he had not made good on his threat.

  “Princess Noor has since returned to university to begin her studies in science and engineering, Barry, and says she wants to find new approaches to old problems in Bagestan.”

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t have stood a chance there anyway. Brainy women never go for me, Marta.”

  “Next up is Princess Jalia, and she’s way out of your reach, Barry, because Jalia lectured in Arabic at a university in Scotland! She’s resigned that post now, in order to stay in Bagestan, but once the dust has settled on the wedding, she’ll be kept busy in her new role as one of the Sultana’s Cup Companions, with some sort of mandate in higher education, we’re told. The man marrying her today is tall, dark and moody Latif Abd al Razzaq Shahin, whose grandfather was also famously a Cup Companion to the old Sultan, as well as the tribal leader of Sey-Shahin Valley, where those fabulous purple carpets come from.

  “And then there’s everybody’s darling, the lovely Princess Shakira, who has been charming us all with her courage and spirit. She has heroically overcome her dreadful experiences in refugee camps while on the run from Ghasib’s killers, and has championed the cause of the Gulf Islanders. She practically single-handedly took on the greedy multinational whose name we won’t mention in polite company, and she’s winning. Shakira is also planning to return to her studies, because she says she missed out on too much of her education while in the camps. She’s been on the—sorry, what? Oh! We’re going to Bagestan now, with Andrea on the live feed.”

  She looked up at the monitor, where the reporter’s face was pictured, surrounded by a crowd of cheering Bagestanis, in front of the glowing golden dome of the Shah Jawad Mosque.

  “What’s happening there, Andrea?”

  “Well, as you know, Marta, Bagestan has some unique and colourful traditions that go back a very long way, and this is going to be a traditional Bagestani wedding times three. Each of the bridegrooms is coming to Jawad Palace in his own procession, and I’m standing in Shah Jawad Square in front of the mosque, where the three processions are finally meeting up. We’ve been watching their approach for the past half hour. The processions converged at the top of the square just a few minutes ago, and the three bridegrooms themselves are now riding together. They’re just about to enter the square, escorted by the crowd of family, friends, street urchins, musicians and interested onlookers. You should have a view on your monitor now.”

  “Yes, we do, and oh, Andrea, they are heartbreakers! Was there ever anything so magnificent?”

  Bari al Khalid, Latif Abd al Razzaq Shahin and Sharif Azad al Dauleh entered the square on magnificent horses—black, white, and bay—though the colours were not easy to detect under the bright caparisons that they bore. Bridles, reins and saddles were richly jewelled, and the stirrups gleamed.

  The bridegrooms were even more richly adorned. Flowing white silk shalwar kamees were covered by the traditional bridegroom’s sleeveless cloth-of-gold coat, whose long skirts, spread over the horses’ rumps, glowed like the mosque’s dome in the bright sunshine. Over his shoulders each wore ropes of lustrous pearls and jewels and the chain of office of Cup Companion, and around his hips a jewelled scimitar. On the head of each, a wide turban was intricately wound with pearls and gold.

  “Did you ever see anything so utterly gorgeous?” Marta commented, as the crowd cheered.

  “I can’t hear you, Marta—the roar is absolutely deafening,” Andrea shouted. “The bridegrooms are riding abreast now, and don’t they look fabulous! They’re moving down the square, a slow march to the palace. In addition to everyone else, they’re accompanied by dozens of musicians playing every conceivable instrument, and by no means all in concert! People are very excited, and here’s someone…what do you think of the wedding?” she asked a young smiling couple, holding out her mike.

  “Yes, it’s great, they are following the old traditions. It’s good that people do this. Under Ghasib, you know, it wasn’t so easy.”

  “When you get married, will you do the same?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s tradition of our people. It’s how we do it.”

  “The palace gates seem to be closed, Andrea,” Marta observed, as the procession reached the other end of the square.

  “Yes, and they’ll remain closed. Here’s what’s happening now, Marta. Each of the grooms will ring the bell in turn, the gates will open—the old bell-pull has been installed for the occasion…there’s the gatekeeper now, Marta, and by tradition he’ll refuse the bridegrooms entrance and close the gate again. Usually a bridegroom knocks and is turned away three times, but today they’ll each ring just once. Then they’ll shout and draw their swords, and at that show of force, they’ll be allowed in—and there they go, inside. So that’s it from me, in Shah Jawad Square.”

  “And now we’ll go inside the Great Court, where the wedding ceremony will take place.”

  “After a certain amount of resistance on the part of the brides, I understand,” said Barry.

  Mar
ta sighed. “You wouldn’t catch me resisting.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem, Marta. You don’t play hard to get.”

  The Great Court was filled with bright-hued canopies and pennants fluttering in the soft breeze, and a milling crowd of guests dressed in gorgeous silks and satins in every colour of the rainbow. Gold and jewels glittered and flashed in the sunshine, and there was music, laughter, and the burble of a dozen fountains.

  “It looks like a medieval fairground!” Marta declared breathlessly. “All we’re missing is the jugglers.”

  Into the scene burst the bridegrooms, scimitars held high, their horses prancing and snorting, surrounded by cheering supporters who were now firing rifles into the sky; and at this invasion the brides’ guests formed up into ranks and began to heckle the men.

  “What do you want here?” the crowd shouted.

  “We come for our brides!” shouted the bridegrooms and their followers.

  “Does a man seek a bride with naked steel?”

  After a pause for consultation with their followers, the bridegrooms sheathed their swords in the jewelled scabbards on their hips.

  “What do you want here?” the crowd shouted again.

  “We come for our brides!”

  “Does a man seek a bride on horseback?” the bridespeople challenged.

  The men consulted and then dismounted, and as their followers parted to form a way for them, the three handsome bridegrooms, their golden coats fluttering on the wind, strode forward.

  “Bring us our brides!” they shouted ferociously, and the crowd of bridespeople fell back.

  “Find your bride, if you know her!” they called jubilantly, and pointed.

  Under a majestic archway, tiled in blue, turquoise and purple, etched with arabesques, curlicues and mysterious, flowing calligraphy, three long lines of women and girls emerged. All were dressed in the most luscious silk, satin and organza, in a rainbow of bright shades, like a Sultan’s jewel chest. They came in ruby, emerald, turquoise, sapphire, topaz, diamond, rose quartz, amethyst, and lapis lazuli, all set in threads of gold and silver.

  All were closely veiled, with a large square of beautifully embroidered silk falling over head and shoulders.

  The brilliantly hued clusters of female shapes moved slowly under the arch and followed a broad tiled pathway strewn with rose petals to the centre of the Grand Court. There the three lines converged in a single, silent group and stopped, veils fluttering in the breeze.

  “Find your bride!” the crowd challenged the men again.

  “All the bridesmaids must be unmarried,” Marta murmured softly, as the grooms ceremonially exchanged insults with the crowd. “And by tradition, a man is bound to marry whomever he chooses at this point.”

  “Sounds risky.”

  “It is, apparently, possible that a family might go all out to buy a particularly brilliant costume for a girl who was for some reason unmarriageable, in the hopes of confusing the bridegroom at this point. So it’s tradition, too, that the rightful bride wears some favour on her veil—of which the groom has been secretly informed, of course—to be sure of being recognized.”

  “It says here,” added Barry, “that a popular cautionary tale in Bagestan tells about a bridesmaid whom the bride secretly sends to the bridegroom on the eve of the wedding, to tell him what sign to look for. But the girl falls in love with the groom at first sight, and so she describes her own outfit as being the one the bride will wear. And at the wedding the groom chooses her and marries her, and then the veil comes off and he makes a great show of anger when he discovers he hasn’t married the right bride. But on their wedding night, he tells the girl that he fell in love with her, too, when he saw her, and he knew who she was and what trick she had played when he chose her. And they lived in peace and harmony for all their days, according to the story, and Allah sent them many children.”

  In the bright courtyard, the bridegrooms now walked among the veiled maidens, challenging them. “Are you she whom I seek?” they asked the veiled girls at random. But the maidens only bowed their heads and made no sign.

  “Now they’ll pretend to be about to choose the wrong woman,” Marta said quietly, “in an effort to flush out the real bride by her agitated reaction. The women are forbidden to make any sign at this point, but it’s a propitious sign for the marriage if the groom finds his bride quickly. Because, they say, if a man is sensitive, he should be able…now what’s happening? There’s some disturbance, but I can’t quite—oh, it seems as though one of the brides has broken with tradition and laid claim to her man…. Is that—yes, it must be Princess Shakira, because that’s Sheikh Sharif Azad al Dauleh she’s holding so ferociously. And is that her brother Mazin expostulating with her?—but he’s laughing too hard….

  “What a staggeringly beautiful outfit she’s wearing! The most luscious sea-green and gold, and—Shakira’s traditional boyish touch—trousers underneath a gorgeously embroidered tunic. Perhaps she took that story to heart, because she’s certainly not going to run the risk of her groom making a mistake…. I don’t know what’s being said there, but everyone is now laughing uproariously, especially Sharif. The breach of tradition has been taken in good part, and I suppose it’s no more than we have come to expect from the iconoclastic princess. And now the other two grooms have found their brides, and they’ll each lead their chosen partner to one of the gold-topped canopies set up on the talar, and the actual wedding ceremony can begin.”

  Twenty

  Late in the night, bride and bridegroom wandered by the sea, alone.

  “Who lives here?” she asked, lifting her face as a wave splashed against an outcrop of rock and the breeze carried droplets of water to her lips.

  “It is Prince Rafi’s holiday villa.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  They paused and turned to gaze at the golden glow above.

  The house, encircled by rock, sat above the tiny private bay where they stood, their feet lapped by the cooling water. It enclosed on three sides a large courtyard set with pomegranate trees. In the centre a beautiful circular pool inlaid with intricate patterns of mosaic tile shimmered green with underwater lights, so that the trees cast faint shadows in the gloom. At one side a gold-domed pavilion was invitingly lit with soft golden light, and music played. Her grandmother’s voice enticed the night.

  When the incense does not burn

  It gives off no perfume

  Only those who have been consumed by love

  Understand me….

  “What a long journey it’s been!” Shakira marvelled. Her head rested against his heart, and the strong, steady beat under her ear seemed to match the music.

  “A thousand miles. And worth every step,” Sharif said.

  She looked up into his face, her eyes brushed with moonlight, seeking reassurance for a heart that, even now, could not quite believe.

  But he had the rest of his life to make it real for her, and that was a whole new journey, and he took the first step tonight. “Even though my heart had been assailed by all that I’d seen,” he said, “somehow Hani struck me a deeper blow than anything I’d experienced before.”

  She smiled wisely. “Maybe because your resistance was so worn down already.”

  He kissed the upturned face. “I thought I was so touched because you had suffered such deprivation, and maybe because you were an al Jawadi. You trusted no one, and I wanted you to trust me.”

  She smiled, considering it. “That’s love, I think. Wanting to be trusted.”

  “That’s a very small part of love, Beloved,” he assured her. “There is much more.”

  They moved up the beach towards the courtyard, and her heart began to beat a hurried rhythm. He led her towards the little pavilion, its gold dome glittering in the moonlight, and in the doorway he stopped, and turned her to him, and at last, at long last, he drew his wife into his embrace, and set his mouth on hers. For the first time, now, he gave his need free rein.

&
nbsp; After an endless time, he lifted his head. Shakira’s senses were reeling, her blood thick in her veins, like warm honey, as he led her into the pavilion.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering. “Oh, this is just like my dream!”

  The pavilion had been made for love. Its high arched openings gave out onto the drunken, perfumed night, over the courtyard, the playing fountains, the drooping blossom, the diamond-encrusted sky. Inside, a wide divan was strewn with pillows and cushions, and covered with lushly embroidered tapestries in a feast of the richest colours she had ever seen. Floor and walls decorated with intricate tiles from another age, and a domed ceiling where arches descended like angels, all a-glitter with mirror and gold, were lighted by the moon and stars, and by a dozen lamps, whose flames glowed inside lamps of filigree and damascene, crystal and jewel, and sculpted brass.

  A low, delicately carved marble table, inlaid with leaves of ebony and chalcedony, and traced with gold, was spread with the feast that had been prepared for them. Plates of beaten gold and silver and intricately painted porcelain held a dozen different dishes, succulent and spiced, whose odours were ambrosia to their senses.

  Sharif Azad al Dauleh led his wife to the divan and propped cushions under her as she sat smiling up into his eyes, her dress falling in a luxurious ripple all around her, trailing over cushions and down to the floor—a sparkling, glittering sea of green silk shot with rivulets of gold.

  Leaning over her, on arms whose strength was not disguised by the fine silk of his own jacket, he bent his head to kiss and tease her lips with a taste more delicious than any food. Warmth rippled through her body, and desire flowed like honey under her skin.

  He sank down onto the floor beside her, his knees folded as in the antique miniatures, the lamplight glinting on the tamed dark curls and the rich dark jewel on his hand, love shining in his eyes.