Bathsheba (20 page)

Years later, however, in his zeal to conquer the territory for the children of Israel, Saul set out to exterminate the Gibeonites and very nearly succeeded.

“Everything you have heard is true,” Grandfather told David. “The reason for the famine lies with Saul and his thirst for blood. The murder of the Gibeonites has polluted the land.”

David sent mules and a messenger to Gibeon, inviting the tribal leaders to Jerusalem. When the delegates entered the throne room, my weary husband asked what he could do to make things right.

I was seated in the great hall when the representatives from Gibeon stood before the king. David regarded them with a look of defeat, opened his hands, and confessed the nation’s guilt. “How can I make atonement so you will be able to bless Israel?”

The Gibeonites conferred among themselves, then their leader
stepped forward. “Our dispute with Saul is a blood dispute that cannot be resolved with silver or gold. But as foreigners in your land, we don’t have the right to put anyone to death.”

David frowned. “Then what can I do for you?”

The leader tightened his grip on his staff. “The man who ruined us, who schemed against us so that we would cease to exist anywhere in Israel’s territory—have seven of his male descendants handed over to us. We will put them to death before Adonai in Gibeon, on the mountain of the Lord.”

I expected a horrified whisper to ripple through the great hall, but the Gibeonite’s reply was met with an almost tangible silence. The atmosphere in the royal court had changed since Amnon’s death—no trace of bravado or certainty remained. Those attitudes had been replaced by resignation and sorrow.

David nodded, his countenance sober. “It shall be done.” He gestured to my grandfather, who rose from his seat and came forward to confer with the king. They whispered for a moment, then Grandfather stepped back. David looked at me, and in his eyes I saw regret and determination. He had made up his mind . . . to do what?

“On account of the oath Jonathan and I swore before Adonai,” David said, his voice heavy with sorrow, “I will spare Mephibosheth, Jonathan’s son. But I will give you Armoni and Mephibosheth, sons of Rizpah, Saul’s concubine. I will also give you the five sons of Saul’s daughter Merab.”

My breath caught in my lungs. Merab’s sons were now Michal’s. She was not in the throne room at that moment, so she would not understand what was happening when guards showed up to take her sons away. And even though I had heard the entire story, I struggled to understand why those young men had to die. Michal lived for those boys, and she had reared them as her own sons ever since their father brought them to the palace. If someone came to take
my
boys away . . .

I brought my hand to my mouth, then lowered my head lest anyone see my look of distress. I did not want to contradict or question the king, and I would never dare to question Adonai, but what was David thinking? How could this be just? Perhaps Adonai had reasons I couldn’t comprehend. Still, how was Michal supposed to endure this?

I looked at my grandfather, whose eyes flashed a warning. So I quickly slipped out of the throne room. But as my sandaled feet skimmed the stone floor, I found myself running toward Michal’s chamber.

As swift as I was, I was not swift enough. By the time I reached Michal’s quarters in the harem, the sound of her heartrending screams filled the air.

A squad of elite warriors had formed a circle outside her door, and Michal’s much-loved sons stood at its center—Elan, Boas, Phineas, and Hananel. Only Ziv, the youngest, was absent, but within a moment a guard approached with that young man, who had obviously been working outside. Still covered in dust and sweat, with wide, questioning eyes he looked from Michal to his brothers.

Elan stood stoically while Boas and Phineas wept openly. Hananel, who had inherited his mother’s talent, had begun to sing a mournful tune, and the sound of his voice quieted Michal’s screams.

I gathered her into my arms, then kept one arm around her as she turned to watch her sons being led away. Tears rolled down her face, trails of loss and fury, yet despite her grief she managed to ask me a question: “What has David done this time?”

A tear trickled down my cheek, but I swiped it away. “He dispensed justice for the Gibeonites, whom your father slaughtered.”

She closed her eyes as her body shook with sobs. Her knees gave
way and she collapsed like a woman speared. As I tried to help her up, two of her handmaids hurried forward and lifted her, then carried her into her chamber.

Anger lit a fire in my belly, and if David had stood before me in that moment, I would have pummeled his chest with my fists and demanded to know how he could be so cruel. Every pleasant feeling I’d come to feel for him melted away in a hot tide of disbelief and righteous fury. How could his action be just? Adonai was punishing Israel with a rod and blows, but because she was married to David, Michal would bear all the bruises.

No wonder she despised him.

I turned, frustrated and heartbroken, and saw my grandfather standing outside the iron gate that protected the harem. With determination in my stride I hurried toward him, then grabbed hold of the bars and spat words at him. “Why?” I demanded. “Michal is devastated. How can this be just?”

“Murder pollutes the earth,” he said, frowning at my display of temper. “Thus says the Lord: ‘Blood defiles the land, and in this land no atonement can be made for the blood shed in it except the blood of him who shed it.’”

I stared at him, the words rattling in my head.

“David’s decision was right,” he continued. “The Gibeonites deserve legal restitution, and now they will have it. And the land will be cleansed of Saul’s evil.”

I shook my head, unable to reconcile my grandfather’s judgment with the grief-stricken wail coming from Michal’s rooms.

“You may never understand Adonai’s reasons.” Grandfather gentled his voice. “As a woman, you need not concern yourself with such things.”

“Just because I am a woman doesn’t mean I don’t
feel
! I feel only a small part of what Michal is enduring, and I am heartbroken. I cannot understand how or why—”

“Suppose,” Grandfather interrupted, moving closer, “one of those young men were to decide to reclaim his grandfather’s throne. Suppose he waged war against David or against one of your precious sons. Such things happen, Bathsheba. Men are prone to covet power and position, and those desires are magnified when a legitimate claim exists.”

I shook my head. “Michal has not raised those boys with pretensions to power. They wouldn’t want—”

“You don’t know what they will want, child. You can’t know. And the king, though still not himself, is wise enough to realize that meeting the Gibeonites’ demands protects his own dynasty from potential rivals. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to accede to their terms. But whether he acted out of prudence or the need to see justice done, he made the right decision.”

I snapped my mouth shut, overwhelmed once again by my grandfather’s logic.

My thoughts were still centered on Michal’s loss the next day when I crossed the harem’s courtyard. Every time I thought of my friend in her empty apartment, my hands clenched and my stomach tightened. My mind roiled with thoughts about what I would do if I were a man and David had decided to offer our sons to the Gibeonites. I would pick up a sword. I would take my sons and flee to some high mountain. I would sell every trinket the king had ever given me and hire an army to defend my beloved boys.

But I wasn’t a man, and neither was Michal. And she had been blindsided by the news, so she had no time to prepare for the loss of her sons.

I wanted to scream with fury—at David, at the Gibeonites, at Adonai himself, for requiring such bloody vengeance. Grandfather’s
explanation made sense to some rational part of my brain, but I was too overcome by sorrow and rage to listen to reason.

I walked with my head down, so I did not see Abigail until she was close enough to touch my arm. When her fingers lightly brushed my skin, I looked up and recoiled as though the devil himself had crossed my path.

“I’m sorry.” She stood tall and graceful, yet in her posture I saw a trace of timidity, as if she had come forward reluctantly. I couldn’t think of any reason she would hesitate to approach me—she was older, more authoritative, and clearly David’s favorite. “I would like to speak to you,” she said, offering a small smile. “In your living quarters?”

I glanced around. We were alone in the courtyard, but anyone could come along at any moment. If Abigail wanted to speak in my quarters, she clearly wanted privacy.

“Forgive me, I am exhausted,” I answered. “I’ve been with Michal all morning—”

“Please.” Abigail gestured toward my chambers. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

I gritted my teeth and led the way, then stood back as she entered my suite. My living quarters had changed very little since Nathan’s birth, the only addition being an extra bed for Elisheba. She had been resting when we entered, but when she saw that I wasn’t alone, Elisheba mumbled something about going for water and slipped out the door.

I pulled out a chair for Abigail. “Would you like to sit?”

“Thank you.” She sat on the edge of the seat and waited until I sat on the bed. We were as close as we had ever been, our knees a mere hand’s breadth from each other.

Abigail leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “I have come to see you because you should know how deeply the king loves you. I know Michal’s situation has made you angry, but please don’t
harden your heart toward David. If you become as bitter as Michal, you will destroy a man who loves you very much.”

I sat back, stunned. “The king doesn’t love me. If he loves anyone, he loves you.”

Abigail gave a gentle laugh. “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. David and I are friends, so I listen to his thoughts and keep his secrets. This is why I know he loves you more than life itself, and why I know he has promised that Solomon will inherit the throne.”

With numb astonishment I realized she was privy to things no one else knew. I was certain David hadn’t told anyone about his promise to me, because he wanted to protect Solomon from his scheming older brothers and anyone else who might covet the throne. Yet Abigail knew . . . and no one else. She had kept our secret.

“David loves you,” she said again. “He has tried to demonstrate his love in a hundred ways. Yet he is a man, so he will not risk rejection. And he is a king, so he cannot grovel.”

She stood and placed her soft palm against my cheek. “If you cannot love him as he loves you, at least be kind to him. Do not let your anger break his heart.”

She moved toward the door and opened it, then turned back to look at me. “Do not let him know that we have spoken. He is proud and would not appreciate knowing I’ve made an entreaty on his behalf.”

I nodded slowly, unwilling to commit to Abigail’s truth. For all I knew, she could be spinning some sort of malicious web, and I did not want to be caught in it.

At the time of the barley harvest, as we observed the Feast of Firstfruits, the Gibeonites executed Saul’s seven descendants by
having them climb a mountain and then step off a cliff. I did not see Michal’s sons die, but according to reports, all seven young men joined hands and fell together to the earth below.