Abigail (2 page)

“Your mother is right, Daniel. I’m too old to live my life on the run, not to mention what it would do to your mother. We would only slow David down.”

“You are far from old, Father. The freedom alone would renew your strength.”

“Would you have your child born in a cave, my son?” Her mother’s severe tone returned. “Talya is better off here, until she is safely delivered.”

Abigail released her grip on the wall and stepped back onto the stones of the courtyard. The discussion would turn to other things now. Too many infants lined the crevices in the burial caves near their home—brothers and sisters she and Daniel should have shared. Daniel wouldn’t chance his future or Talya’s health after such a declaration. Their mother knew how to get her way.

Abigail’s sandals trod softly across the court and into the small house, and she eased the door shut behind her. Two years she had waited since her betrothal, and now at fifteen summers since her birth, she was ripe with longing for a home of her own. At three and twenty, surely Nabal longed to marry, to procure sons.

When, Lord?
When would her bridegroom come for her?

She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and pushed aside Daniel’s comments of Nabal’s churlish behavior. When they married, things would be different. She would help Nabal see the error of his ways, gently point out how people lost respect for men who were rude or unkind, help him change.

Things would be better. They had to be.

With a heavy sigh, she glanced about the dark room, then settled onto her mat, listening to the muffled voices of her family on the roof. Uncertainty niggled at the back of her thoughts. Everything had seemed so possible until now. Until she had heard her father’s doubts and her mother’s agreement. Until the possibility of annulment seemed a reality. Until running away to join a band of outlaws sounded more appealing than marrying her husband.

2

Abigail removed the evening bread from the clay oven in the courtyard and stood. One hand shading her eyes, she gazed toward the town of Maon, where her father, Judah, trudged the narrow path, a lone lamb draped across his slumped shoulders. Defeat shadowed his dear face, and when he glanced up and noticed her, he looked away as though he could not bear the shame she knew he bore.

“Any word, Abba?” That night on the roof, despite her silent protests, Daniel had finally convinced her father to seek the dissolution of her marriage to Nabal. Apparently, Nabal had been caught in a drunken brawl and nearly beat a man to death, which had prompted Daniel’s renewed concerns and convinced Abba to act. He had spoken to the elders a week ago. Surely they must have come to a decision. But her hope, which was thin and brittle at best, cracked and splintered at the distinct shake of her father’s head and the look of intense remorse in his eyes.

“Simon is too powerful, Abigail.” He reached for her then and placed a gentle, rough-worn hand against her cheek. “One of the elders must have brought my request before him . . .” He looked away toward the distant hills, shaking his head again. “Ach . . . we knew it was impossible from the start.” He attempted a shrug, but the lamb’s body prevented his shoulders from lifting. On closer inspection, she noticed the lamb’s splinted and bandaged leg.

She reached to pat the animal’s head, looking from the bandage to her father’s face. “How was she hurt?” Instinct told her the answer, but she waited to hear it from him, knowing he needed to talk about something normal, something besides the foreboding truth that hung between them. “Did a wolf or a bear get her, or did she run away too many times?” Sometimes Abba was forced to kill a rebellious lamb, one who would not learn obedience, but often he would first break the leg of the runaway, then carry the ewe close to his heart until it healed, to teach her obedience.

“She is the youngest yet the most stubborn of Nabal’s flock. A lion almost got her, but Daniel was quick to stop him. That boy would do well with his own flock, if Adonai ever sees fit to give him one. He is the best hireling Simon and Nabal have.”

Abigail looked into the large, frightened eyes of the lamb, almost hearing the pitiful cry she must have given, the betrayal and hurt she must have felt when Abba purposely broke her leg. She cringed at the thought, imagining what it must be like to be so rebellious, to suffer such consequences.

“Nabal will come day after tomorrow.” Her father’s words jolted her, sending her stomach into a spiraling dip.

“So soon, Abba? Then there is no hope of a termination, or of going after David as Daniel suggested?” She bent to kneel beside the lamb content in her father’s lap, and gently dug her fingers into the soft wool. She might have preferred a broken leg herself if it would have meant keeping her close to her father a while longer, despite her earlier thoughts that she would prefer a home of her own. She didn’t want to leave now. Not after her parents had expressed such doubts, after there had been such hope that she might marry someone other than Nabal.

Her father patted Abigail’s head, shifting the cloth that covered her dark reddish-brown tresses, keeping her beauty safe for her husband. “I have failed you, my Abigail. My little lamb.” He cleared his throat as though to say more would cost him, and when she lifted damp eyes to his, she saw the grief he bore.

She buried her face in the animal’s wool, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. She had less than two days to prepare to become Nabal’s wife. Two days to mourn the freedom she knew in this house, to grieve as Abba did now, knowing neither of them could undo what had been done.

Nabal would come for her, and she would become his wife. And there was nothing they could do to stop it.

The shofar blew in the distance, announcing Nabal’s coming.

A hush settled over the courtyard as the neighing of horses and the sound of rowdy, loud male voices carried through the open windows.

“Behold, the bridegroom comes!” The voices of her ten virgin maids took up the traditional chant. “The virgins hold their lamps to light the way. Expectantly the bride awaits, till she hears the trump of her beloved.” Abigail’s heart throbbed beneath the multicolored robe that flowed in folds to her ankles and spilled over the wedding bench. She fingered the ruby pendant, Nabal’s betrothal gift that rested between her breasts, trying to see through the hazy curtain of her veil.

His insistent knock made her feel faint. The room tilted.

“Who knocks on my door?” Her father’s strong voice quoted the prescribed words, but his tone held no anticipation or joy.

“Your daughter’s beloved, my father.” Nabal’s words slurred ever so slightly. Had he been drinking already? “I have come to take my bride to be with me in my father’s house.”

Silence met her ear, and for a weighty moment Abigail sat, hands clasped, nerves taut like strings stretched across a lyre. At last, her father cleared his throat and opened the door. “Welcome, my son.” It was the polite thing to say, but Abigail knew Nabal would never hold a place in her father’s heart the way Talya did.

Nabal’s voice came to her above the pounding of her anxious heart as he made small talk with her parents and the handful of well-wishers filling the house. They would feast on sweet cakes and drink the wine her parents had been hoarding until at last he would come to the dais and take her hand.

“Abigail, he’s coming this way.” Her cousin Leah’s whisper made her throat go dry. He’d just arrived. He was supposed to greet her family in the Lord’s name and kiss her father’s cheeks and offer gifts to her mother and linger with her brother and . . .

She smelled his heady scent before she heard his heavy footfalls across the courtyard. His gilded leather sandals stopped before the dais. She looked up, catching a filmy glimpse of his multicolored robe and turbaned headdress secured with gold-studded rubies. He wore golden wristbands and a wide golden chain about his neck. He smelled of rare spikenard, and he smiled as he parted the flimsy veil and knelt in front of her.

“Everything is ready. Will you come?” His tone came out as more of a demand than a question. And of course, she had no choice.

“I will come.” The words, barely audible even to her, caught in her throat. She cleared it and swallowed but did not repeat herself. His fingers now holding hers in a possessive grip told her he had heard.

The veil fell back across her face as he pulled her to her feet. The sudden action made her dizzy again. She had eaten little since early morning, and now her appetite fled completely. She grasped Nabal’s hand for support, afraid she might faint. He didn’t seem to notice as he pulled her past the decorated court through the house to his waiting horse. She stared up at the beast, her thoughts whirling.

“Are you ready to go for a ride, Wife?” He chuckled. “Wife.” He tested the word as though tasting it, then looked at her with a sweeping glance that made her cheeks burn. “Let’s go.”

“But what of the others? Mama has prepared food, and the neighbors have waited so long, and we’re supposed to take time to talk and eat and laugh, and the maidens are supposed to carry torches and lead the people to your father’s house, singing love songs along the way—”

“They’ll come. Your father knows the way. He will lead them.” He climbed onto the horse’s back and bent to reach for her hand as one of his men came up and helped boost her into Nabal’s arms.

He leaned forward, his face next to hers. “I’m supposed to steal you away, little girl. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She shook her head, simultaneously thanking God for the veil that hid her gaze and begging forgiveness for the lie. Fear of Nabal mingled with fear of the horse until she worried she would be sick. “I’ve never ridden a horse, my lord.” She was supposed to ride a jewel-bedecked camel—and she was not a little girl!

His eager hands went around her waist. “Just don’t look down.”

She could feel his hot breath on her neck, the scent of wine from his lips mingling with the spikenard. He had been drinking, which was sure to make him even more unpredictable.

Oh, Adonai, please be with me.

He slapped the reins, and the stallion jerked forward. Abigail stifled the urge to cry out. Nabal’s laugh merged with the roaring in her ears. She had to stay focused, stay alert. It would do no good to appear as weak as she felt. His arm tightened around her waist. He took off down the trail ahead of his men, leaving her father’s household and the wedding party in his wake.

3

The horse slowed to a trot as they neared the gate and stopped outside the torch-lit courtyard. Servants swarmed about carrying trays of food and drink, burning cones of incense to keep mosquitoes at bay. A male servant helped Abigail dismount. Nabal jumped to the ground behind her. “Take her to the tent, Zahara.” His command was directed at a pretty, foreign, dark-haired female servant who gave Nabal a look that seemed much too familiar.

Abigail glanced from Nabal to Zahara, then down at her dust-covered robe and disheveled veil that the wind had whipped and plastered to her face. She could still taste the grit from the sand they’d traversed. Nabal had taken to the outskirts of town to race over rough terrain as if bandits were at his heels. No doubt he had heard of her father’s request to back out of the betrothal. Surely this was why he had whisked her away from her father’s house in such a rush as well. Did he mean now to take her to the bridal tent without the final blessing of the priest and the witness of the townspeople?

She felt the pressure of his hand at the small of her back, urging her to follow the servant. “May I make myself more presentable for you first, my lord?” She had to stall him, to allow her father time to catch up. Surely Daniel would have hopped a donkey and would be fast on their heels.

Nabal’s hand moved from her back to her shoulders. He turned her toward him, then slowly lifted her veil. The moon cast his already narrow face into hard, angular lines, accentuating his frown. He wasted no time lowering his head until his lips claimed hers. “You are plenty presentable already, my dear.” His fingers dug into her shoulders, and he pulled her close, his mouth pressed against her ear. “Never question me, Wife.”

He released her then and pushed her from him. She stumbled, reeling from the obvious threat, still tasting his wine-coated breath. Zahara caught her arm and gently tugged her away from Nabal toward the sprawling house.

Zahara moved past the outer courtyard down a long corridor of rooms. She glanced behind her, then leaned closer to Abigail. “Whatever you do, do nothing to anger him.”

Abigail’s empty stomach turned to stone, but she nodded as though she understood. Daniel had been right all along to call Nabal a fool.

“If you do what he asks, everything will be all right,” Zahara whispered in her ear. The servant paused at the end of the hall, then opened a door that revealed an inner court the likes of which Abigail had never seen. Flowering plants and trees ringed the smooth stone walkway. Whitewashed stone benches were spaced at various intervals. Musicians tuned their instruments in one corner of a large circular area, and a white tent bedecked with colorful ribbons stood alone and foreboding in another. Abigail shook loose of Zahara’s arm, unable to move another step. She could not enter the bridal tent without the priest’s blessing. Before Yahweh it wouldn’t be right.