Bathsheba (16 page)

“Of course.”

“Would you say she is precious to you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then you love her. And she loves you, because you are undoubtedly dear to her.”

I smiled at the understanding I’d stumbled across: I honestly cared about David. He was precious to me because he was Solomon’s father and because he seemed to delight in my company. His delight brought me great pleasure.

“Is . . . ?” Tamar hesitated. “Is that how you feel about my father?”

I searched her eyes, curious about her choice of words. She had not spoken of David as the king, but as “my father,” so for her this was about more than my feelings for David. This was personal.

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because Mother says I will be married to a king, so I must know how to please him. I want to be happy, but unless I please my husband, I know I will never find happiness. I look around the harem to see which wives are content and . . . well, you seem to be the only one. The others may be satisfied, but except for you and Abigail, I don’t think any of them are truly happy.”

I stifled a laugh, surprised by her astute observation. An atmosphere of serenity did seem to envelop Abigail, but why shouldn’t it? The king sent for her even more often than he summoned me.

“You may be right,” I answered, choosing my words carefully because I wasn’t sure how much Tamar knew about my previous life. “I didn’t like the king when I first came to the palace. I had to heal from some deep wounds, and I needed time to sort through my thoughts and feelings. But after spending time with the king and sharing experiences with him, yes, I have learned to care for him. But that sort of relationship takes time.”

Tamar leaned against the back of the bench and sighed. “Oh, I hope I find that kind of love! Mother says I will be happy because I am beautiful and a king’s daughter. But she is beautiful and a princess and she’s not happy. I want to be as in love with my husband as you are.”

I remained silent, not certain that what I felt for David was love, also knowing that it would not benefit Tamar if I told her everything. Furthermore, Tamar’s mother had spoken the truth as she knew it. David married Maacah to form a political alliance, and he slept with her because he yearned to possess beautiful women. She’d given him two gorgeous children, and he was kind to her out of respect for her role in his household. But he did not seek Maacah when he wanted to talk. If Michal’s gossip could be trusted, David never played the harp for her or told her stories about his childhood home in Bethlehem. She had never fully entered his heart.

I wanted Tamar to enjoy a more satisfying marriage than her mother’s. As a good, kind girl, she deserved happiness, and at sixteen she was old enough to be betrothed.

I reached out and patted her hand. “The king will do what is best for you,” I assured her. “And as much as it is in my power, I will ask him to find you a husband who will respect you as a friend and care for you as a wife. Do not worry, child.”

She smiled, her eyes lighting, and before moving away she pressed a soft kiss to my cheek.

T
HREE
YEARS
PASSED
.
My days revolved around Solomon, Shammua, Shobab, and Nathan—caring for them, clothing them, seeing to their education—and my nights revolved around the king. He did not send for me every night, of course, but as the sun drew down the sky I always made sure my hair was arranged, my skin perfumed, and my gowns appropriate for a visit to the king’s bedchamber.

I kept my promise to Tamar and often spoke to David about her and his many sons. For a man who took great delight in his children, he did little to remain involved in their lives once they left their mothers’ care. Though I urged him to devote an hour of each day to one of his many children, he would offhandedly reply that he had employed more than enough tutors, soldiers, priests, and counselors to take care of his sons. If I pressed, his temper would grow short, so I learned not to press him. “Why should I spend time with my children,” he once retorted, “when the palace
is overrun with servants and relatives who entertain them better than I?”

One evening, the king invited me to dine with him in the great hall. I entered at the appropriate time and found the chamber crowded as usual, with the king’s older children, several captains from his army, a few counselors including my grandfather, and several guests from Judah. I bowed my head toward the appropriate dignitaries and made my way to a couch at the king’s side. Tamar, I noticed, wore the brightly colored garment of a king’s daughter and dined on a couch between two of her brothers.

David greeted me with a smile and then proceeded to preside over the gathering as best he could, ignoring the servants who continually carried in trays piled with fruit, vegetables, and various meats. He and a pair of Judean herdsmen launched a spirited discussion about sheep shearing, and although I had learned enough about sheep to converse with the king, I was not particularly interested in debating animal husbandry.

As I partook of the olives, grapes, and almonds the servants brought, I considered myself fortunate that I did not dine with the king every day. My grandfather once told me that Saul’s meals were always loud, boisterous, unrefined affairs, more like warriors eating around a campfire than dignitaries in a king’s household. David’s banquets were not quite so raucous, but the male guests still laughed and joked loudly, and more than a few stripped the roasted meat from animal bones, then tossed the bones onto the floor. A trio of the king’s favorite hounds prowled the room, searching for scraps, and several guests made a sport of tossing food into the air and wagering on which dog would snag it first.

Truthfully, I would have preferred to eat with my boys in the quiet of my room.

With no one clamoring for my attention, I turned to Tamar and her brothers. While the boys laughed and joked among themselves,
Tamar reclined gracefully on her sofa and nibbled at a dried fig as though her thoughts were far away. I would have wagered that she was dreaming of the young man who would one day be her husband. I reminded myself to urge David to accelerate his search for a suitable match. Tamar was nineteen, already older than I was when I married Uriah.

I studied her brothers. Amnon, still unmarried at twenty, had reached his full height and sprouted a beard thicker than his father’s. Eighteen-year-old Absalom was also unmarried, though he too had attained the full measure of manhood. Adonijah was the youngest of the group at dinner, but at seventeen he was well on his way to surpassing his brothers in height. Also dining with the king’s children was Jonadab, a son of David’s brother, Shimea.

Watching the boys with an appraising eye, I thought it time for all the king’s mature children to consider marriage. At fifty, David was more than old enough to be a grandfather. At twenty-nine, I was mature enough to engage in a little matchmaking.

Watching the older boys jeer and joke with each other, Amnon’s behavior struck me as curious. For as long as I had known him, the spoiled young man had routinely intimidated his younger siblings, forcing me to delicately find ways to keep him away from Shlomo. But now, like Tamar, Amnon picked at his food as if he had no appetite. Yet he did not stare off into space but boldly focused his gaze on his half sister. Every time her head turned even slightly in his direction, he perked up as if she’d called his name.

A thin, sharp blade of foreboding nicked my heart. As a
tob
woman, I had often seen that look of burning desire on men’s faces, but Elisheba had taught me to look away lest I encourage an unrighteous attraction. Tamar’s mother, on the other hand, might have encouraged such looks, but surely not from one of the girl’s brothers. Fortunately, Tamar was so intent on her thoughts that she seemed unaware of Amnon’s interest.

I rested my chin on my hand and considered the possibilities. A marriage between Amnon and Tamar might be possible, but neither the king nor the girl’s mother would find it desirable. Furthermore, Tamar would not want to marry one of her brothers. She had grown up in a herd of rowdy princes, and her dreams of romance would never include one of them.

My concern over what appeared to be a precarious situation diminished when I saw Amnon lean in Tamar’s direction and inadvertently catch Absalom’s eye. The sight of Absalom’s chilly gaze must have alarmed Amnon, for he quickly turned his head, pushed his tray aside, and called out for the king’s attention. When David looked his way, Amnon stood and asked to be excused, a request granted by a quick wave.

I reached out and squeezed David’s arm, a silent signal that I wished to speak to him. He lifted his hand in response, wordlessly assuring me that he would turn as soon as he’d finished his conversation with the shepherd. I waited because I had no other choice, but clearly David needed to think about finding spouses for his older children.

My grandfather never sought my company for idle reasons, so whenever he did ask to see me, I went at once to meet him. I never told him about David’s promise to me, nor of the prophet Nathan’s assurance that Solomon would one day sit on his father’s throne. Samuel’s prophecy was enough to convince Grandfather that one of my sons would do something great in Israel, but if he knew Solomon would be king once David died, I worried that he might try to rush my husband into the grave.

One hot summer afternoon, Grandfather asked to meet me in the palace garden, far from curious ears in the harem. I left
the younger boys with their nurse while Solomon and I went to see him.

Grandfather stepped back to study Shlomo, who gave the king’s counselor a dignified nod. “You have grown!” Grandfather said, his smile splitting his white beard. “And I understand you are as smart as your tutors.”

“Smarter than some of them,” I couldn’t help adding. “He can name every animal that finds its way into the garden, yet some of his tutors are helpless to identify many of the insects and birds.”

Grandfather patted Shlomo on the shoulder. “Why don’t you run along and play with the other children? I need to talk to your mother.”

I lifted a brow, wondering what had motivated this rare meeting. Sometimes I thought Grandfather purposely avoided seeing Solomon and me. I wondered if the sight of us awakened memories of that dark time before I married David. Grandfather had always adored my first husband, and the passing of years had not erased his grief over Uriah’s death or his anger about David’s role in it.

As Solomon trudged off to find some way to amuse himself, Grandfather took my arm and guided me to a balcony overlooking the Kidron Valley. Standing at the balustrade, we could see nearly all of east Jerusalem, the clear line of the fortified walls, the sloping hills that curved to the valley below. I never tired of the sight, because it reminded me of the many warriors who had given their lives to help us claim our Promised Land.

“I have heard,” Grandfather said, his voice light, “that David has expressed interest in searching for any remaining sons of Saul. Has he mentioned this to you?”

I blinked. “David rarely speaks of kingdom business when we’re together.”

“Then what do you talk about?”

I tilted my head, annoyed by my grandfather’s attempt to pry
into a very personal relationship. “We talk about Solomon. Or he reads his poetry. Sometimes I listen to his writings.”

Grandfather tipped his face to the sun. “You should make an effort to learn more about what is happening outside the palace. The mood in Jerusalem has changed. David is no longer universally loved by his people.”

I crossed my arms and stared at the horizon. “David will always be the anointed king. Adonai has promised him an eternal dynasty.”

“I didn’t mean to irritate you. So let me ask this—have you heard of a man called Mephibosheth?”

“No.”

“He is Jonathan’s son. After David inquired about any remaining members of Saul’s family, he sent for this Mephibosheth and welcomed him to the palace. The man is lame in both legs, but tomorrow he will eat at the king’s table, just like David’s other sons. Just like
your
son, when he is old enough to join his brothers.”

My thoughts spun with bewilderment. Why did Grandfather think I would care about this news?

“Our king,” I said, pronouncing each word carefully in case Grandfather had begun to go deaf, “is gracious, and he loved Jonathan. Why should anyone be concerned because David has been generous to a crippled man? Since I have a lame sister, I applaud what the king has done. The people of Jerusalem will do likewise.”

Grandfather turned, his dark eyes pinning me to the ground. “Your king may appear to be kind and generous, but he is no fool. Any threat to his throne would arise from the house of Saul, so David is only keeping his enemy within arm’s reach. Why do you think he has allowed Michal to raise her sister’s sons? David wants to keep a tight rein on his enemies. If this Mephibosheth or any of his allies were to mount a campaign against David, they’d have to conspire beneath the king’s very nose.”

I took a quick breath of utter astonishment. “David’s motives are entirely honorable. He would not even consider—”

“You have always been naïve, Bathsheba. That’s why Uriah was such a good match for you. Though he converted to the worship of HaShem, he never forgot how the world operates.”

“My husband the king,” I said, keenly aware of the rage that had begun to boil beneath my skin, “acts out of a noble and loving heart. He loved Jonathan. They vowed that if one of them should die, the other would extend faithful love to the departed man’s family. That is why he sent for this crippled man.”

Grandfather paused, then gave me a one-sided smile. “Your husband is a heartless pragmatist,” he countered. “And your defense of him, along with the flush on your cheek, reveals the depths of your feelings for the man. I wish HaShem had never brought you to the palace, because one day you will see the full extent of your king’s ruthlessness.” He patted me on the shoulder in a mocking display of sympathy. “May HaShem comfort you then, granddaughter.”