Bathsheba (13 page)

T
HE
MAN
ON
THE
DUSTY
PATH
was no mere messenger; the cut and ornamentation of his garment signaled an officer of some distinction. As he drew closer to the spot where I sat under my fig tree, I recognized the sharp features of the king’s chief counselor.

“Greetings, Nathan.” Ahithophel stopped on the path and granted me a dignified nod. “I trust you are well?”

I tilted my head to study him. The king’s counselor had never stopped at my house, even though he passed it whenever he journeyed to his farm in Giloh. What could possibly have motivated this visit?

I stood to show respect. “I am well. Are you?”

Ahithophel pointed toward an empty stool under my fig tree. “May I?”

“Far be it from me to deny any man a bit of shade on a hot day.”

Ahithophel sank to the stool, then exhaled and wiped a trail of
perspiration from his forehead. “I am sorry to trouble you,” he said, pulling a scroll from the leather bag hanging from his shoulder, “but I wanted you to read this and tell me if Adonai might be swayed by these sincere words from a repentant heart.”

I frowned, not understanding, but after unwrapping the scroll I recognized David’s handwriting. I had seen his writing before, on parchments for the priests. The king had an exceptional talent for poetry and music.

I sat on my bench. “I cannot speak for Adonai unless He speaks to me first.”

“Understood.”

“And I have already proclaimed the Lord’s judgment on David’s household.”

“Indeed. I was in the throne room when you spoke to the king. But the king and his wife love their new baby, and I would have you read this and tell me if Adonai might be willing to honor a truly contrite heart.”

I skimmed the text. “The king wrote these words himself?”

“With his own hand.” Ahithophel crossed his arms. “I will wait while you read.”

I lifted the scroll.

God, in your grace, have mercy on me;

in your great compassion, blot out my crimes.

Wash me completely from my guilt,

and cleanse me from my sin.

For I know my crimes,

my sin confronts me all the time.

Against you, you only, have I sinned

and done what is evil from your perspective;

so that you are right in accusing me

and justified in passing sentence.

True, I was born guilty,

was a sinner from the moment my mother conceived me.

Still, you want truth in the inner person;

so make me know wisdom in my inmost heart.

Create in me a clean heart, God;

renew in me a resolute spirit.

Don’t thrust me away from your presence,

don’t take your
Ruach Kodesh
away from me.

Restore my joy in your salvation,

and let a willing spirit uphold me.

Then I will teach the wicked your ways,

and sinners will return to you.

Rescue me from the guilt of shedding blood,

HaShem, God of my salvation!

Then my tongue will sing

about your righteousness—

Adonai, open my lips;

then my mouth will praise you.

For you don’t want sacrifices, or I would give them;

you don’t take pleasure in burnt offerings.

My sacrifice to God is a broken spirit;

God, you won’t spurn a broken, chastened heart.

How blessed are those whose offense is forgiven,

those whose sin is covered!

How blessed those to whom Adonai imputes no guilt,

in whose spirit is no deceit!

The writing continued, but I lowered the scroll and turned to my companion. “The king wrote all of this?”

Ahithophel nodded. “He has been in mourning since your visit. That evening his baby became ill, and the king retired to his chamber when he heard the news. He spent the night on the floor in
prayer. We encouraged him to rise the next morning, but he would not be persuaded. He remains in his bedchamber, eating nothing and drinking only water, but he writes. I’m sure he’s written other things, but these are the writings he gave me to share with you . . . in the hope that Adonai would change His mind and save the child.”

I drew a deep breath and turned the scroll, closing it. “It would seem our king has been thoroughly chastened. You must be happy to know he has repented of his sin. He had grown complacent in his relationship with Adonai, but I don’t think he will take the Lord’s favor for granted again.”

Ahithophel’s frown deepened as he took the scroll from me. “But he caused Uriah’s death, and the Law demands that anyone who murders must die. For HaShem made men in His own image—”

I lifted my hand, cutting him off. “Adonai has also said that David will
not
die, but will feel the consequences of his actions. It is not for us to second-guess what HaShem will do.”

“It is not enough.” Ahithophel leaned forward and looked at me, dark fury glowing in his eyes. “If a star should fall from the sky tonight and destroy all the king’s wives and children, it would not be punishment enough to atone for what he has done. He killed a loyal servant and ruined a virtuous woman.”

I recoiled, startled to discover such a depth of anger in the older man. In the king’s court Ahithophel was a model of rectitude, with steady nerves, a humble attitude, and an implacable disposition. I had never seen this aspect of his nature . . . nor, I suspected, had the king.

“Adonai judges the heart,” I said quietly. “And the words written in that scroll seem to indicate that David’s repentance is sincere. You should accept the will of Adonai and support our king, for HaShem has promised him an eternal dynasty.”

A thunderous scowl darkened the counselor’s brow, and he looked away. His anger resonated in the space around us, and only after
several moments of silence did he manage to calm himself enough to speak again.

“Now you understand my dilemma,” he said, staring into the distance. “The prophet Samuel gave our family a prophecy: Bathsheba’s child will be a great man who will do great things for Israel. This infant boy ought to be our king, not that murderous son of Jesse. With a wise counselor to guide him until he reaches the age of maturity, this baby boy could be the greatest king the world has ever known.”

I stared wordlessly at the king’s counselor, my heart pounding as a memory washed through me, pebbling my skin like the touch of the
Ruach Kodesh
. I remembered my master’s voice and a baby girl, but had not considered the prophecy in years. Yet here it was, rising as a threat to David and the throne of Israel.

Ahithophel did not understand. But he would.

I closed my eyes, waiting for some word from Adonai, and finally it came:
Send him away.

I lifted my head. “Adonai wants you to return to your home. He has already spoken in this matter, and His word will be fulfilled.”

Ahithophel looked at me, astonishment on his face, then snorted softly and stood. “Thank you for your opinion.”

He dropped the scroll into his leather bag and walked away without once looking back.

O
N
THE
THIRD
DAY
OF
OUR
SON
’
S
LIFE
,
only a few hours after Nathan’s visit to David’s throne room, the king and I sat together in my room. Without warning, the baby at my breast stopped nursing, vomited, and turned blue. In a cold panic I screamed for the midwife while David sent for his physician. As we waited, I patted the baby’s back, trying to force the sickness out of him. David prostrated himself on the floor, then stretched out his arms and prayed aloud, begging Adonai to have mercy on our son.

The king’s attendants urged David to return to his own chamber, but the midwife remained with me, holding a nearly silent vigil over my pale son, who struggled for every breath.

Over the following days, my baby’s skin grew bluer and blotchier while the whites of his eyes turned yellow. I remained by his side, letting him clasp my finger or holding him close to my breast in the hope I could bring some comfort to such a small and vulnerable
soul. More than once I caught him watching me, silent and helpless, with his increasingly yellowed eyes.

Servants who visited my chamber reported that David, the king of all Israel, lay on the floor of his room, already mourning the death of our son. His counselors pleaded with him to rise and eat, but he refused. The business of the kingdom stalled while the king remained in his chamber, and his advisors worried that he would be too grief-stricken to govern if the child perished.

By the seventh day, our precious son had little life left in him. I held him in my arms and gently ran the back of my finger over his cheek until his breathing slowed and stopped. When I was certain he would never breathe again, I sent my servant to tell the king.

With my sad vigil at an end, Michal later told me, the royal advisors huddled outside the king’s chamber, afraid to give him the terrible news. “He wouldn’t listen to reason while the child was ill,” they murmured, “so what drastic thing will he do when we tell him the child is dead?”

But David heard them whispering. He opened his door and regarded them with a weary look. “Is the child dead?”

As one, they nodded.

David closed his door, washed himself, put on lotions, and changed out of his rumpled clothing. Leaving his stunned officials in a bewildered huddle, he left his chamber and walked to the Tabernacle. After offering a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, he returned to the palace and asked for his dinner.

“His advisors and servants were amazed,” Michal said. “They couldn’t understand why David was inconsolable while the baby was sick, and calm after he died. David told them that he’d wept and fasted because he hoped Adonai would be gracious and let his son live. But once a child has died, what more is to be done? David told them, ‘I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.’”

I must have looked shocked, for Michal squeezed my hand.
“David is the most pragmatic of men. Prone to intense mood swings, yes, yet immensely practical. He prays, and then he accepts Adonai’s will, whatever that may be.”

I carried Michal’s story back to my empty chamber and sat on the bed, considering all that had happened in the last week. My son—the child I initially dreaded, a baby who should never have been conceived—had been born, and my hopeful heart rejoiced to hold him in my arms. I saw the same light of joy in David’s eyes, and the cold place within me warmed to know that despite everything, the king wanted our child.

If the story Michal told could be trusted, David had honestly grieved for his sin and prayed for our son. Despite the brazen callousness he displayed nine months prior, the king still possessed a tender heart, one that remained sensitive to Adonai’s discipline. To my knowledge, Uriah had never been brazen or cruel, but neither had he sought the Lord as earnestly as David. Uriah swore his loyalty to men, while David pledged his loyalty to HaShem.

I lay back on my pillow and felt a hot tear trickle from the corner of my eye. I had lost more than a son; I had lost faith in the prophecy that had given my life meaning and purpose. What kind of God bestows a promise and then withdraws it? Was I merely a plaything for Adonai’s amusement? Did the Almighty enjoy tormenting women like me?

I wept, not only for the child I had lost but for all the hours and days I had spent trying to be the kind of woman who could raise a child intended for greatness. My mother’s admonitions, my father’s instruction—why had they been so foolish as to believe the prophet’s words?

Their beliefs, their work, their aspirations . . . pointless! Meaningless! I had imagined myself chosen and special, but apparently I was nothing but an attractive woman who’d been brutalized by a powerful man. Since David apparently no longer found me
appealing, I would be like Michal, condemned to live alone in a palace filled with people.

The thought of my loveless future drew bitter tears from some deep place behind my eyes, and I spent the rest of the night weeping.

Thirty-three days after our son’s birth, I took a spotless one-year-old lamb to the Tabernacle for my purification offering. And that night David the king sent for me. I went to him because I needed to confirm his conviction that we would indeed see our child again.

David invited me to sit on a cushion near the fire pit in his private chamber. Once I was settled, he sat next to me and asked what was on my mind.

I studied the fire to avoid his piercing gaze. “In truth, my lord and king, I have been thinking about our baby. I have come to believe that his death was my fault, for once I realized I was having a child, I hated him. I despised him for existing and I wanted him gone.” Though I struggled to hold them back, tears began to flow again. “I thought God was punishing me, and on some nights when I couldn’t sleep I went so far as to pray that he would die within my womb—”

“Bathsheba.” David slid closer and tilted his head to better see my face. “You are not to torture yourself with these thoughts. The fault is not yours.”

I hiccupped a sob, then looked him in the eye. “Why is it not my fault?”

“Didn’t you hear what the prophet Nathan said? Before the entire court he announced the details of my sin against God. You were not to blame; I am the guilty one. Our baby died because of my sin, not yours.”

I swiped tears from my cheeks. “But I was not innocent. Hate
for you and the child burned hot in my heart, and I did not love him until I held him in my arms. You did wrong, I can’t deny that, but Adonai could not have approved of my feelings. I questioned Him, I doubted Him—”

“The Lord is quick to forgive the repentant.”

“Even when the rebel . . . even when she is angry at HaShem?”

The king’s brows rose, then he smiled. “Even then. Especially then.” He lowered his head to catch my gaze. “You hated me?”

I hiccupped again, then gave him the truth. “Very much.”

He nodded. “Your hatred was not unrighteous. I sinned against you, Bathsheba, and I will understand if you can’t forgive me. You wouldn’t be the first wife to hate me, but you might be the first to . . .” He shifted his attention to the dancing flames, which painted his face with flickering light and shadows. “I would like for us to be friends. I know I cannot force you to love a man who has injured you so grievously, but I know who you are and I am honored to have you as my wife. I would be greatly pleased if you would give me an opportunity to be your husband.”

Blinking my remaining tears away, I studied his profile. How did he know who I was? And what, exactly, did he expect of me? I was his wife and his subject already; my heart and body were his to command.

“My lord and king—”

“Please.” He turned to me, his right hand lifting to thumb away the trace of a tear on my cheek. “When we are together like this, let me be David, and you shall be Bathsheba.”

I stiffened, torn between a desire to lean into his palm and the urge to stand and run. “David.” I swallowed hard. “I am your wife already.”

“As is Michal,” he said, his brow lifting, “yet she no longer desires my company, so I do not force her to endure it. I have wives aplenty, but I have few confidantes.”

An image flitted through my mind, the memory of David embracing Abigail in the hallway outside my room. She was one of his confidantes, surely, because the connection between them had been almost palpable.

“I have a question,” I said, strengthening my voice, “because I must find solace in my grief. I have heard that you said our son could not return to you, but you would go to him. How do you know this? That child was my reason for living, so I must know if I will see him again. I must be sure that Adonai’s word is truth.”

David’s eyes widened, with an odd expression coming over his face, one of eagerness and tenderness mingled together. “You are the first woman to ever ask me such a question,” he said, smiling. “But consider this. After Samuel died, Saul visited a witch in order to summon Saul’s spirit from the place of the dead. We are commanded not to do such things, and Samuel rebuked Saul for the act that brought them together again. But Samuel remained
alive
, though not on earth. HaShem has set eternity in our hearts, so we know death is not the end. It cannot be.

“You can be sure, Bathsheba.” David slipped an arm around me, and my skin tingled at his touch. “You can be sure of Adonai, and you can be sure of me. From this day forward, I promise to be a good husband to you. I will treat you with kindness, compassion, and gentleness. And if Adonai blesses us with another son . . .”

The words had barely entered my ears when a realization followed. David was speaking kindly to me; he did not regard me with disdain. If he could be trusted, if Adonai could be trusted, I could have
another son
.

My stomach knotted with anticipation. “Yes?”

“I will name your son as my heir. Before you and Adonai, I make this solemn vow.”

He leaned toward me, but I placed my hand against his chest
in order to search his eyes. They did not burn as they had on our first meeting, but neither were they senseless from too much wine. David’s gaze brimmed with sincerity and truth, so perhaps my prophecy would be fulfilled with another son, one who was not yet born.

I moved my hand to his neck as, with a soft sigh, the king settled his mouth on mine.

Throughout the next several months, the king showered me with gifts. A heavy gold chain one week, a silk tunic and robe the next. He must have asked a servant to discover my favorite flower, for a bowl of lotus blossoms appeared on my dressing table one morning and every day afterward.

I hesitated to embrace these gifts because I knew the other wives would notice if I exhibited any signs of special favor. So the flowers remained in my room, and I wore the new garments and jewelry only when the king sent for me. He seemed to take pleasure from seeing me in silks and jewels, and to my surprise I took pleasure in our evenings together.

By the time I recognized the signs of pregnancy, I had come to terms with my marriage and my position in the palace. For reasons only He understood, Adonai had placed me in the king’s house to bear a son who would do great things for Israel. The prophecy did not involve my first son, the child who suffered the consequences of David’s sin, but my second. In His mercy, HaShem did not doubt me as quickly as I had doubted Him.

When the first three months of my pregnancy had passed, I answered the king’s summons with a light step. We dined together in his chamber, but afterward, instead of following him to his bed, I took his hand and led him to the cushions around the fire pit.

“What’s this?” His brow arched as he followed me. “Are you cold?”

“Not at all.” I waited until he sat, then sat next to him. “I wanted to give you some news.”

He reached out and wound a strand of my hair around his finger. “Do you want something? I will do my best to grant any request.”

“This isn’t exactly a request—at least, not yet.” I exhaled in a rush, then caught another quick breath. “I am carrying another child. And if I bear a son, I beg you to remember your promise.”