Abigail (27 page)

He quirked a brow at that. “What do you mean?”

“She argued with her brother, the man who planned to take me for himself. I couldn’t understand their words, but he did not do as he planned, as he might have done.”

David closed his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and released it, but he did not take another step toward her. “I hope what you are saying is true, beloved. But your maid was Zafirah, not Zahara, and an Amalekite spy. I suspected her from the first week she joined us and should have sent her away right then. Despite what she might have said to save you, the fact is, she led those men to Ziklag. She almost cost me your life. For that, she deserves whatever fate befell her.” His voice rose on the last words, but when he cleared his throat, his tone grew quieter yet was just as stern. “Put her out of your mind, Abigail. And never speak of her again.”

Abigail paused in her stitching and swallowed the rise of emotion evoked by the memory. She’d wanted to ask David how he knew Zahara was a spy or why he’d suspected her, even how he’d come to know her Amalekite name since she hadn’t told him. And if he’d known all of this, why had he allowed Zahara to live among them for so long? Or was it just a hunch that happened to be proved right? Chances were, she would never know. As it was, the argument had cost her precious time with him, and she had slept fitfully beside him without the comfort of his touch.

She tilted her head at the sound of children racing down the street and kicking a pottery shard in a keep-away game. Laughter rose from young girls watching the boys play, and a handful of women scolded the boys for coming too close to them as they moved from the river carrying jars of water on their heads.

She started at the sound of David’s voice among a group of men heading toward the courtyard not far from where she sat. He hadn’t called for her to share his bed since that night, and even from this distance she suspected he would keep his gaze turned away from her at any cost. The inner turmoil this created in her spirit had stolen her appetite for days, but there had been no chance to seek him out to ask his forgiveness.

Though deep in her heart, she still believed she was right— he should be the one seeking her goodwill, not the other way around. But she would humble herself and fall at his feet if she knew it would put an end to their current strife. She was a peacemaker at heart, and her heart told her she needed to act soon.

Shouts caused her to look up again.

“Captain! A runner comes.” Asahel, David’s nephew, rushed up to the courtyard and stopped near David. “A man enters Ziklag even now. He comes from the battle. There is news of the king.”

Asahel stepped aside and allowed David a full view of the foreigner now moving toward them. A Bedouin—robe torn, dust on his head, and out of breath—came to a quick stop just outside the courtyard and fell to his knees before David. He bowed low, his face to the dust.

“Where have you come from?” David asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have escaped from the camp of Israel.”

David’s hands clenched of their own accord, and he steeled himself for the news, holding his anger in check. “What happened? Tell me.”

The man lifted his head and rested on his haunches, hands pressed against his knees. “The men fled from the battle. Many of them fell and died. And Saul and his son Jonathan are dead.”

David’s gut tightened and he winced, not wanting to believe. He searched the young man’s face for some sign of falsehood. “How do you know that Saul and his son Jonathan are dead?”

The man straightened, fingering a leather pouch at his side. “I happened to be on Mount Gilboa, and there was Saul, leaning on his spear, with the chariots and riders almost upon him. When he turned around and saw me, he called out to me, and I said, ‘What can I do?’ He asked me, ‘Who are you?’ ‘An Amalekite,’ I answered. Then he said to me, ‘Stand over me and kill me. I am in the throes of death, but I’m still alive.’ So I stood over him and killed him, because I knew that after he had fallen he could not survive.”

“And Jonathan?” The question faltered on his tongue, though deep in his spirit, David knew the man had spoken the truth.

“A Philistine arrow pierced him through. That is all I know.” The man reached into his pouch, produced a jeweled golden crown and a solid gold armband, and laid them at David’s feet. “I took the crown that was on the king’s head and the band that was on his arm and have brought them here to my lord.”

David glanced at the familiar adornments of Saul, then looked hard at the Bedouin, his mind reeling. The man had admitted to killing Adonai’s anointed. “Where are you from?” Had he heard him correctly, that he was an Amalekite? Surely the man was not such a fool as to think David would be pleased to hear such news from an enemy that nearly cost him his life and the lives of his family.

“I am the son of an alien, an Amalekite,” the Bedouin said, lifting his chin. His haughty gaze rested on David as though in challenge, as though proud of his heritage. Apparently the man truly was a fool.

“Why were you not afraid to lift your hand to destroy Adonai’s anointed?” David took one step back from the man and skewered him with a look. Several of his men quietly surrounded the Bedouin. The man glanced around him, blood draining from his face.

Abishai stood at the back, behind the man, sword drawn. David nodded to him. “Go, strike him down.”

In three strides, Abishai moved forward and thrust his sword into the man’s back.

“Your blood is on your own head,” David said, “for your own mouth has testified against you when you said, ‘I have killed Adonai’s anointed.’ ”

The man fell in a heap where he stood, his eyes wide, his face twisted in a grotesque mix of hatred and fear. David gave him one last look, then nodded to Abishai. His men took the body to a nearby ravine and cast it down for the carrion birds.

David sat cross-legged in the dust, his throat raw from weeping, his eyes stinging and swollen. The feeling was all too familiar. Hadn’t he and his men dealt with similar emotions just days ago when they thought their wives and children were lost to them? A knot of grief coiled in his belly, and his mind traveled of its own accord to the terrifying moment when his men had come close to stoning him. How much of a difference a few weeks could make! Now they looked at him with expectant eyes beneath their grief, eyes that spoke of the promise of the future kingdom.

A kingdom that now felt suddenly hollow. How could he ascend the throne without Jonathan at his side? He had always expected to have his friend help unite the tribes, to turn the kingdom over to him after Saul was dead. Michal would be restored to him, and he would bring the people back to the true worship of Adonai. Now, without Jonathan’s aid, who would accept his rule?

He lifted his head from staring into the ash-coated dirt and looked over the compound in one sweeping gesture. Abigail sat huddled near their tent, a picture of misery. His conscience pricked at the sight of her. He’d been hard on her after the rescue, upset with her desire to seek a maid who had betrayed her. Somehow he needed to make it up to her, to let her grieve in her own way, however misguided she might be.

His gaze shifted away from his wife to the pockets of men and women sitting in small groups, mourning the dead. How many had lost loved ones in the battle? Months would pass before they would know for sure. And how much territory had the Philistines taken from Israel?

David’s hands clenched in and out as he considered how close he had come to being forced to fight with them.
Oh, Adonai, how I thank You for sparing us.

The thought made his heart turn heavenward, and a song of lament formed in his mind. Brushing the ashes and dirt from his tunic, he stood, walked toward his tent to retrieve his lyre, and returned to mourn his friend.

Abigail pulled her cloak about her, cinching it against the evening breeze that blew down from the surrounding hills and sent the flames in the fire pit to dancing. She crossed her legs at the ankles, listening to David strum his lyre. He repeated his haunting lament for Saul and Jonathan over and over until she could match the tune in her head.

“Your glory, O Israel, lies slain on your high places! How the mighty have fallen! Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines be glad, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised rejoice. How the mighty have fallen in battle! Jonathan lies slain on your heights . . .”

She glanced at her husband sitting across from her. His dark head was bent, his fingers deftly strumming the funeral dirge.

“I grieve for you, Jonathan, my brother. Your love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women.” He paused, his voice catching as it did each time he uttered the words.

Abigail studied the fire, the words pinning her with guilt. As his wife, she should have loved him without demands, should have somehow offered him a companionship unequaled. Hadn’t God said in the beginning that the two shall be one? But David had made their marriage a union of three from the start, since Michal could not really be counted. And yet, only Michal had been his alone, a position Abigail envied. If she had been the first . . . But she mustn’t bemoan what she couldn’t change.

She shifted her gaze from the fire to David, catching a look of deep sorrow in his eyes. He offered her the slightest smile and held her gaze, and in that moment she understood the meaning behind her husband’s lament. David and Jonathan had shared a camaraderie, a brotherhood of friendship and burden-bearing of secrets and trust, much like women shared a common sisterhood, a commiserating of shared worries and woes. She’d had such a thing with her cousin Leah before her first marriage, a lifetime ago.

She inclined her head toward David and offered him her most understanding expression in return, then averted her gaze and toyed with the fringe along the edges of her robe, debating whether to stay and continue to listen to his mournful tunes or move to the tent and find solace in sleep. Undoubtedly, he would grieve alone this night, so he wasn’t likely to require her presence.

“How the mighty have fallen, and the weapons of war perished.” He strummed one last chord on the lyre and let his fingers fall silent. David’s men rose two and three at a time and bid their goodnights, then headed to their tents. Abigail looked up at the touch of a hand on her arm.

“Come with me, Abigail.” David held his hand out to her, surprising her.

She felt the warmth of his fingers intertwining with hers as he led her to their tent. He paused at the opening and bid Ahinoam to rest, then tugged Abigail beyond the partition toward his private quarters. Multiple pillows surrounded a plush blanket, offering a soft cushion to cradle them when they slept. The furnishings were a far cry from the goat-hair blankets and cloaks they’d used for coverings when she had first married him, evidence of the many spoils taken in battle.

He placed the lyre in a leather pouch and hung it from a peg, then motioned for her to join him among the pillows.

She knelt at his side and shifted her feet beneath her. “How can I serve you, my lord?”

He pulled her down beside him and traced a finger along her jaw. “Serve me? Surely you must know that’s not why you are here.” His expression softened as his eyes assessed her. “Something troubles you, though. What is it?”