Marguerite Kaye - The Widow And The Sheikh

He shook his head. ‘You underestimate yourself.’

Was he teasing her? He could not seriously mean he enjoyed her company. His attention had turned back to the view of the city. His expression was almost impossible to read. ‘Azhar, what has brought you back here? You have been away for so very long.’

‘Not long enough. I never believed I would return. You know, the parallels of our situations struck me forcibly last night,’ he said bleakly. ‘In fact, you will be surprised to know that my reasons for this journey are very similar to yours. I too come in order to secure my freedom. I am also here at the behest of a dead man.’

‘What can you mean? What dead man? Azhar...’

But he was already walking towards the camel. ‘No more questions. Now is the time for action. All will become clear in due course.’ He clicked his tongue and the ship of the desert once more dropped obediently to its knees.

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.’

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