The Widow And The Sheikh

Completely at a loss, Julia allowed him to lift her on to the camel. He mounted in front of her, and set the beast back on its feet. Their little caravan headed down into the valley, past the blue pool of the oasis, the vibrant green of the irrigated fields, and Julia, her head spinning with the onslaught of colour and scents, focused on staying upright in the saddle.

Questions jostled for room in her head, but there was no prospect of answers for the moment. On they went, through the winding streets, past piazzas with tinkling fountains, souks closed now for the day, the air still redolent with the cinnamon and mace, cardamom and cumin they had been selling. People were staring. In fact, a lot of people were staring, nudging each other, summoning yet more people. It was unusual for a woman to ride on the same camel as a man—that much Julia knew. Was that all it was? Perhaps their interest was exacerbated by her Western clothing. In all likelihood they had never seen a Western woman before. Yes, that was it. Though it was beginning to look as if the entire city was turning out to look at them as they passed.

Feeling extremely uncomfortable and extremely anxious, Julia was thankful to be able to hide behind her improvised veil. Azhar, she only then noticed, had not covered his face. Risking a glance back, she saw that they were being followed by a growing crowd. The nudges, the murmurings and mutterings were perfectly audible even above the hooves of the mules and camels, but Azhar looked resolutely straight ahead, his gaze unswerving. On they went, and the trail of people behind them turned into a procession, the mutterings and murmurings a sort of wailing—no, not wailing. It was not an unhappy sound. She could not see the women’s faces, but the men were smiling, the children were laughing.

‘Azhar,’ Julia hissed, ‘what is going on?’

Still he remained silent. Still they continued on. In front of their little caravan, the inhabitants of Al-Qaryma threw themselves down on to their knees. Someone had strewn rose petals in their path. Rose petals! Julia could hear singing from the human tide of people behind them. Bells began to peal. This was more, much more than mere hospitality. It was not Julia they were interested in either, but Azhar. Ten years he had been gone, yet all these people had come out of their houses to celebrate his return. Why? Who on earth was he?

She had the first inkling of an answer when he finally brought the camel to a halt at the palace. Two guards, armed with glittering scimitars, dressed in immaculate white, threw the gates wide and fell on to their knees in obeisance. More guards, two long lines of sentries, stood to stiff attention. From the high windows of the palace which looked out over the courtyard, Julia could see faces peering down. Behind them, the people crowded in. As Azhar clicked his usual command and the camel dropped obediently to its knees, the crowd fell silent.

Azhar dismounted. Julia slid down, her body drenched in cold, clammy sweat. ‘Azhar?’ she whispered, but his eyes were fixed on the huge portico, the formal entrance to the palace, where a man was emerging.

Dressed in a gold tunic, his headdress encrusted with precious jewels, the man made his way towards them. He was tall, would once have been considered handsome, but his body was running seriously to fat. Above the short, precisely trimmed beard, his cheeks were florid, his chin jowly. There was an air about him of entitlement, arrogance even, and a hint of petulance about his mouth. He was clearly privileged and in a position of power, and Julia suspected that he used both to his advantage. A man who demanded not only respect but subservience. A fraction of a second too late, late enough for this royal personage to notice, Julia dropped to her knees and bowed her head.

To her astonishment, Azhar remained standing. She watched from beneath her lashes as he approached. The man’s smile was rigid. The barely disguised resentment in his expression made Julia shiver. The packed courtyard crackled with tension. He halted in front of Azhar and uttered one word. Julia’s grasp of Arabic was basic in the extreme. Brother, she thought he had said, but that could not be. They were the antithesis of each other.

The slightest inclination of his head was all Azhar gave, but the royal person eased himself with difficulty to his knees and kissed Azhar’s hand before getting up again, turning to the crowd, uttering the ritual words of welcome, and thanking God for Azhar’s arrival.

Cheers erupted and cries of the traditional words of welcome rung out, over and over. Julia could restrain herself no longer. ‘Azhar!’ The sudden hush made Julia realise she had most likely broken every single protocol, if not committed treason, but it was too late now. ‘Azhar,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Will you please tell me what on earth is going on?’

He turned towards her, and it felt as though every single person in the courtyard was holding their collective breath. ‘Julia. Allow me to present to you my brother, Prince Kamal, Sheikh al-Farid. Kamal, this is Madam Julia Trevelyan. She will be our guest for a few days.’

Automatically, Julia dropped a curtsy, although the man completely ignored her, saying something over her head to Azhar. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, earning herself a shocked intake of breath from the crowd as she interrupted him, but she was beyond caring. ‘If this is your brother then you...’

‘I am Sheikh al-Farid, Crown Prince Azhar of Qaryma,’ Azhar replied with a pronounced sneer. ‘Welcome to my kingdom.’

Chapter Three (#ulink_bb0e9055-1769-5fb4-ae02-a80f6302b4ea)

Azhar poured the last dregs of coffee from the pot. The thick, dark liquid, which he had always preferred without the customary sugar, seared its way into his stomach, adding to the edgy feeling which had kept him awake all night. His first night here in the palace for ten years. In the intervening period, he had not missed this place or this desert or this life, had taught himself never to think of any of it. Taught himself rather too well. Wrenched from his real life, returning so abruptly, it all threatened to overwhelm him. The allure of the desert itself was powerful. He had not forgotten its mystical beauty, but he had suppressed the memory of it. Yesterday, his first sighting of Al-Qaryma had stirred the depths of his soul. The world contained many other deserts, many other beautiful cities, but only here, in this kingdom, in this city, were his people.

His people?

No, they were not his people. Those crowds who had followed him through the streets yesterday, the people he refused to allow himself to acknowledge, they were not his. They were his father’s people, and now they would be Kamal’s.

As if on cue, a discreet tap on the door preceded a manservant, who announced Kamal’s arrival. The dramatic change in his appearance struck Azhar afresh. Kamal had always been a greedy child, with a penchant for sweets and pastries that he made no attempt to curtail, but youth had protected him from the worst effects of over-indulgence. Now, at twenty-nine, two years younger than Azhar, his brother looked at least ten years older.

Taking care to mask his thoughts behind a benign countenance, Azhar got to his feet. ‘At last. We did not have an opportunity to speak privately last night. It is very good to see you, Kamal. Get up, please, there is no need—you know I never did like to stand on ceremony.’

Avoiding the proffered embrace, his brother instead bowed over Azhar’s hand. ‘Things are very different now you are soon to be crowned. As King, ceremony is precisely what you are required to stand on.’

He had not imagined it last night, then, there was an appreciable edge to Kamal’s tone. ‘You must know I neither expected nor wanted this,’ Azhar said, taking a seat on the divan by the window, and indicating that Kamal should join him. ‘The summons I received came as a complete shock.’

‘Our father’s health had been in decline for some time. This past year, he was too frail to rule effectively. I was obliged to step in and assume control. With his blessing, I might add.’

‘An obligation I’m sure you discharged with great skill.’

‘One does one’s humble best, however temporarily the responsibility rests on one’s shoulders. The burden is yours now, my brother.’

Yes, his brother was definitely hostile. An understandable emotion in one who believed his powers were about to be wrested from him—and that was another thing he’d forgotten about Kamal, how much he enjoyed wielding even the most insignificant scrap of power and influence. It would be very easy to put his mind at rest, but Azhar’s instincts told him to hold fire for the present. Though his intentions were set firm, though he had absolutely no doubt as to their validity, experience had taught him the benefits of keeping his own counsel until he was ready to act. Silence was a powerful ally. There was knowledge to be gleaned from keeping Kamal in blissful ignorance for the time being, and knowledge was even more powerful than silence. The time for Azhar to declare himself would come soon enough, but it was not now.

‘When I said the summons came as a shock,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘I referred not only to our father’s demise, but to the fact of my being named rightful heir.’

Kamal looked astonished. ‘You jest! And it is a joke in poor taste, if I may say so. As if the King would ever have dreamed of disinheriting you.’

‘I am being perfectly serious. I believed my departure to be final and irrevocable.’

‘And yet you have returned none the less,’ Kamal replied with a tight smile. ‘I knew you would. I knew you would not be able to resist claiming your kingdom, even though you forfeited any right to it all those years ago.’

Azhar flinched inwardly at the barely disguised animosity, though he kept his own expression neutral, reminding himself that his brother’s feelings were perfectly natural. Kamal had always adored his royal status, had always resented his subordinate status as second son. As far as he was concerned, Azhar had returned to snatch what had become rightly his. His resentment was understandable, if disappointing to witness. ‘You do me a disservice,’ he said. ‘I had no idea this kingdom was mine to claim. Our father...’

‘Oh, please, let us be done with this pretence! You were always his favourite, and you know it, Azhar. Firstborn, favoured son—that was you. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him.’

His tone was horribly familiar. Azhar had forgotten how petulant Kamal could be when thwarted. One thing he had in common with their father, and another thing that had clearly not changed. As to his words, however...

‘You know perfectly well that is preposterous,’ Azhar said. ‘When I left, he forbade me to return. “If you defy me and leave now, it must be for ever. The decision, once made, is irrevocable,” were his actual words—not words that I am likely to forget.’

‘What else could he say, in the face of your determination to disobey him?’

Azhar gritted his teeth. ‘He made it impossible for me to do anything else. There is a world outside Qaryma. All I wanted was to see it. I have lost count of the number of times I begged him for permission to experience a little of what the wider world has to offer.’

‘And the more you begged, the more determined he was to deny you, and the more determined you became to have your own way. You really were very alike in that sense,’ Kamal said. ‘Stubborn, determined to impose your will on everyone, able to listen to no other point of view. How ironic that the man who claims he never wished to be a king will now make a king in our father’s image.’

Kamal was wrong. Azhar had never wanted the crown. He had come here with the express purpose of proving that. Although the words were said deliberately to rile him, they also provided the perfect opportunity to put Kamal out of his misery, but his brother’s attitude set Azhar’s resolve to wait. Unlike him, Kamal had acceded to their father’s will, but from the sounds of it, not without a simmering sense of resentment. ‘To return to my original point,’ he said. ‘The summons I received was a very great shock. When I left...’

‘You know, I never did understand why you were so set on going anywhere, Azhar. Everything you could wish for is here, but you were always determined to shake the sands of Qaryma from your feet, weren’t you?’

‘It was never my intention to leave for good. If he had granted me permission to travel before I reached my majority, I would have honoured any conditions he set on my return. But he would not give me permission, forcing me to wait until I no longer required it, on my twenty-first birthday. He could not deny me the right to leave, but he could deny me the right to return, and that is what he did. When I left, our father made it clear that the price for my wanderlust would be permanent exile.’

Kamal snorted. ‘He said that out of desperation to keep you here. He never gave up hope that you’d come crawling back on your hands and knees. You’d have thought that he’d be pleased to have a second son on hand to inherit, a son who, unlike his firstborn, was obedient and respectful and who actually wanted to rule, but, no—it was you he wanted. It was always you. All I was fit for was to send a summons to you upon his demise. He had Council witness it too. He could not have made his desire to exclude me clearer.’

‘If that is true, why then did he insist the summons was sent after his death? He appointed you as Regent. Why not summon me to fulfil that role?’

‘Ten years without a word from you, Azhar. Ten years!’ Kamal said bitterly. ‘Don’t you think you’d made it very clear by then that you would never return while he was still alive?’

‘He knew I didn’t want this. He knew I have never wanted it. He could not bend me to his will while he was alive. That summons was his attempt to do so from beyond the grave.’

‘A successful one too,’ Kamal said with malicious relish. ‘Our father could certainly be both capricious and vindictive. Perhaps by deliberately denying you the opportunity for any sort of reconciliation he was punishing you for turning your back on Qaryma and, more importantly, on him. Now it is too late to be forgiven, and you will have to live with that on your conscience. Poor Azhar.’

Anger warred with hurt at his brother’s sarcastic tone. Pride kept both firmly under control. ‘I have no desire for forgiveness, having committed no crime,’ Azhar said curtly, getting to his feet. ‘You overstep the mark, Brother.’

‘Forgive me.’ Kamal fell to his knees, and Azhar made no move to prevent him. ‘It has been a somewhat difficult time, trying to protect your interests here, not knowing how long it would be before you returned.’

‘I have been remiss, I should thank you for running the kingdom in the interim,’ Azhar said, indicating that Kamal should rise.

‘Yours will be the only thanks I receive,’ his brother replied. ‘You cannot have failed to notice yesterday how pleased the people are to see you.’

He had in fact tried very hard indeed to take no notice of anything on his arrival. Azhar waved his hand dismissively. ‘A show of respect, nothing more.’