Abigail (11 page)

Daniel watched as the stone fell into the groove cut for it, sealing the cave’s opening. He glanced to his right at David, who stood beneath the shelter of a terebinth tree, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the crowd. His stoic stance masked the emotion Daniel had witnessed the day the prophet Gad brought the news of Samuel’s death. David had torn his clothes, and later that night when they had all made it safely down the mountain and camped in the clefts of the hills, he had composed a song and taught it to the prophet. David stood listening now as the school of prophets sang the song in layered harmony one last time.

A surge of pride rushed through Daniel that David’s presence here, though hidden, was felt by every man close enough to hear the song. Someday, when David was king, all Israel would be able to hear the music that made him famous among the men who supported him now.

His gaze skipped beyond David to the crowd. There below them, King Saul’s retinue took up the place closest to the burial cave. The king’s son Jonathan stood nearly as tall as the king, his manner stately and somber, and somehow appeared more sincere than the king. Daniel looked back at David again, certain David had seen his friend. David turned his head at that moment and met his gaze. He moved his head, motioning Daniel forward.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” Daniel asked, stepping beneath the shelter of the tree camouflaging David.

“Jonathan is here.” David unfolded his arms, then crossed them again.

“Do you want me to bring him to you?” The task would not be an easy one, but he would do anything for David.

Silence followed his question as David’s gaze swept beyond him to some point in the distance. “I would not ask it of you. It’s too risky.”

It would be difficult to get close to Jonathan without his bodyguards stopping him. But he was willing to try.

“The guards do not know me, so maybe there is a chance. Benaiah or Joab would be spotted at once, but I was never part of the king’s household.” He met David’s serious gaze. “Let me try.”

David studied him for a long moment, and Daniel felt as though the man could read into his soul. At last he nodded, his expression grim.

Daniel slipped from beneath the tree’s limbs and made his way down the hills with purposeful strides. A donkey brayed, and a baby’s piercing cry made him glance that direction. But the child wasn’t his. Talya was safely back with his mother and the other women in a protected area south of town.

Daniel felt for the dagger at his waist along with his other valuables. In a crowd this size, funeral procession or not, there were always people who would snatch a man’s worldly goods from him without his notice.

His sandals scraped the dark sand and rock as he reached the base of the hill. Saul’s attendants had the king surrounded, and Jonathan was no longer visible. The way parted as he drew nearer, and he noticed a line of men moving forward, each paying their respects to the king. Where were Samuel’s sons and the rest of his family? They were the ones who deserved such respect, not a king whom God and Samuel had rejected. But it figured that Saul would use Samuel’s death to his own advantage.

A burly man brushed against him, bumping him into the man beside him. “Sorry,” the man said as he shoved his way past, toward the head of the crowd.

“Sure you are,” Daniel muttered under his breath, careful not to be overheard. He straightened his shoulders and stood on his toes, trying to see over the heads of the taller men in front of him.

Irritated with the whole situation and anxious to find Jonathan and get out of this crowd, Daniel’s impatience grew. As he approached the king’s armor bearers and flag bearers, Daniel straightened his robe and tunic and raised his head, hoping his bearing exuded confidence and made him look as though he belonged. He slipped in unnoticed among the first batch of men and spotted the prince standing several paces beyond at the king’s side. A startled intake of breath made him turn. A partially veiled woman stood beside him, her hand pressed to her mouth.

He turned to her, then stepped closer. “Abigail?”

She nodded, then shook her head and pointed to the man in front of her, holding a finger to her lips to silence him. Nabal stood two paces ahead, dressed like a prince himself, his shoulders flung back, his bearing proud.

Daniel inclined his head to show her he understood, then moved to within touching distance of her. No one would notice with the crowds so thick. If only he could speak to her. But a discreet hand on her arm was the best he could do without Nabal overhearing.

He glanced at her every now and then, longing to speak.
Are you well?
His eyes asked the question he could not voice. She gave the slightest nod, but he didn’t miss the longing, the deep need, in her expression. Would he see her again? She’d never even had the chance to meet his son. Somehow he must convince David to camp near Nabal’s estate so he could bring Talya and Micah and Mama to meet with her.

Nabal’s turn came to stand before Saul, and Daniel slipped away, listening as Nabal proudly introduced his beautiful wife. Daniel caught a glimpse of Jonathan, but the prince had turned his gaze toward the hills. Unable to risk exposure for Abigail’s sake, in defeat Daniel moved back through the crowd to David.

PART II

One of the servants told Nabal’s wife Abigail: “David sent messengers from the desert to give our master his greetings, but he hurled insults at them. . . . Now think it over and see what you can do, because disaster is hanging over our master and his whole household. He is such a wicked man that no one can talk to him.”

1 Samuel 25:14, 17

David had just said, “It’s been useless—all my watching over this fellow’s property in the desert so that nothing of his was missing. He has paid me back evil for good. May God deal with David, be it ever so severely, if by morning I leave alive one male of all who belong to him!”

1 Samuel 25:21–22

13

Abigail strode through the storehouse, clay tablet and thin reed in hand, making sure the numbers matched what the young man in charge of the place had recorded. Nabal would inspect the records soon enough, and she wanted to make sure there were no mistakes. A sigh worked its way through her, and she struggled to fight off a feeling of unease. How naive she had been the day of Samuel’s burial six months before, hoping for a glimpse of her family. How idealistic the imaginings of her youth when she had believed that she alone could curb Nabal’s churlish behavior. Her brief glimpse of Daniel had only heightened her homesickness, and Nabal was no kinder than he’d ever been.

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment, remembering, heat pouring through her. Three years of marriage had done little to erase the shame of her wedding night, of the way Nabal had treated her since, of the beating and the humiliation . . . If she had learned to curb her tongue sooner, had realized that a man’s ego was a fragile thing . . .

She blinked, forcing her attention to the baskets of parched corn before her. The memories were best held close enough to rein in her actions and her words, but far enough not to wound her again. The physical scars were reminder enough.

She jotted a few markings on the tablet and allowed herself to feel a small moment of pleasure. Despite her disappointing marriage, Nabal had become almost manageable since the day he had so wounded her, almost as if he regretted his actions, though his caustic tongue told her otherwise. While his attitudes were often deplorable, her husband was not unattractive, though he came close the mornings after he’d drunk too much—his breath alone could skin a coney. But at other times, especially in the early days when she’d blotted out the things that troubled her most about him, she had actually dreamed of love. Now she dreamed only of peace and did all in her power to make sure it didn’t elude her.

She scratched her temple with the end of the reed as she walked toward a row of corn and turned to the one with pressed date cakes, then went on to count the row of raisin cakes and figs. The sheepshearing feast would begin at sundown, when Nabal returned with his shearers after the last of the three thousand sheep had finally been shorn. Rowdy men would fill the house and courtyards, and wine would spill in abundance from silver goblets to bearded lips. Nabal would be drunk each night. His unpredictable wrath was the one variable she struggled to understand, to appease, to vainly hope to control. If only she could find a way to rid these storehouses of the wine . . .

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the troubling thoughts. So many emotions warred within her, threatening her sense of well-being and her fragile peace. If she could just keep things running smoothly, keep everyone fed and safe . . .

She ran through her mental checklist again, glanced at the tablet, and added the markings in her head. Everything was in order here. She had spared no expense, considered no detail too inconsequential. Perfect.

Satisfied with her calculations, she placed the tablet on a low table near the door and stepped into the sunlight. The expansive courtyard spread out before her, where harpists and flutists and a drummer practiced for tonight’s entertainment.

Please, Adonai, let everything go well.

She skirted the edge of the courtyard, smiled in quick acknowledgment at the servant who was arranging flowers and cones of incense around the court’s perimeter, and moved to the back of the house, where the smoke from twelve roasting and dressed sheep rose to meet her. The scent tantalized her empty stomach, reminding her that she needed to hurry inside to oversee the rest of the supper preparations. Sheepshearers came in growling like she-lions from all the hard work.

She lifted her robe from her ankles as she stepped nearer the open pits spitting fat from the lambs. The slow roasting, smoking, and salt would help preserve the meat for the days to come. Nabal’s feasts tended to last at least a week, two if he was in an unusually generous mood.

Three young boys stood watch over the spits. She smiled and nodded to them as she walked among the rows, checking to make sure the lambs didn’t burn on one side. When all looked as it should, she walked across the yard toward the kitchens. Zahara met her at the ovens, where several female servants were taking the third batch of bread from the heat and placing it on the stones to cool.

“There you are,” Zahara said, wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Jakim is looking for you.” She wiped flour-coated hands on a piece of soft linen, her expression worried.

“What does he want? What’s wrong?” The young shepherd had arranged the one meeting she’d had with her parents after Daniel had convinced David to move to the wilderness of Maon.

Memories assaulted her at the thought, and she sighed, feeling again the ache that came from missing her father’s strong arms about her. She could not tell him of the abuse she suffered in Nabal’s house, but she could see by the glint in his eyes that he knew.

They all knew. Or at least suspected. Though none of them spoke of it because nothing could be done to change it.

“Perhaps when you have a child, Nabal will become a decent man,” Mama had said, confirming her own silent hopes. But her mother’s clinging embrace and the way she avoided looking Abigail straight in the eye dashed those hopes just as quickly. A child would not change Nabal. Short of a miracle, nothing would.

“I don’t know what he wants, my lady,” Zahara said, snapping Abigail’s thoughts back to her maid. Zahara looked toward the front of the house and motioned for Abigail to follow as she stepped toward the hall through the kitchens that led to the main courtyard. “Some visitors came to Nabal by the river where they are shearing. Jakim raced home in a hurry looking for you, but that’s all he would say. Come. He is at the well watering his horse.”

Male servants rarely spoke to her unless there was trouble. Abigail tucked a loose strand of her thick, ever-straying hair beneath her headdress, smoothing the fabric and wishing the wrinkles of her heart could be so easily pressed into submission. She forced aside her anxious forebodings as she wove her way around the serving girls and followed Zahara. The scents of garlic and cumin mingling with the baking bread, normally appetizing fare, now made her stomach do an uncomfortable flip. Her sandals slapped the rectangular stones of the court as she lifted her robe and tunic and half ran to keep up with Zahara’s long strides. They moved past the guards at the gate toward the well at the entrance to Nabal’s estate and arrived moments later, out of breath. Jakim stood rubbing down a lathered horse while the horse panted and drank water from the stone trough.

Abigail slowed her pace and released the grip on her skirts. She held Jakim’s gaze for the briefest moment before he averted his eyes and fell to one knee before her, arms raised in supplication.

“Please, my lady, you must do something, or every man in Nabal’s household will be dead by morning.”

Zahara’s sharp intake of breath and Jakim’s unmasked fear told Abigail that this was no ruse.

“Tell me what happened.” She pressed a hand to her throat, feeling the rapid cadence of her pulse. She willed herself to stay calm. Nothing could be so bad that she couldn’t, with God’s help, figure out a way to fix it. She just needed to listen, to think.

Jakim rose to his feet. “David sent messengers from the desert to give our master his greetings, but he hurled insults at them.” He kept his voice low and glanced about as though he expected Nabal to appear at any moment. His actions would have seemed ludicrous if she didn’t know for a fact that Nabal had loyal spies everywhere—much like King Saul’s supporters who ignored the fact that they served a mad king.

“Yet these men were very good to us. They did not mistreat us, and the whole time we were out in the fields near them, nothing was missing.” Jakim’s voice cut into her thoughts, the weight of his words suddenly registering deep within her. “Night and day they were a wall around us during the whole time we were herding our sheep near them.” He shifted from foot to foot, his movements agitated, his gaze darting beyond her as though he feared the rocks themselves would betray him. “Now think it over and see what you can do, because disaster is hanging over our master and his whole household. He is such a wicked man that no one can talk to him.”