Bathsheba (23 page)

When he had finished, he returned to his post at the city gate. Though he had buried four of his precious children that morning, he stood stoically beneath his tent, unsmiling and red-eyed. On that day the visitors who entered the City of David kissed and comforted
him
, for word of his loss had spread throughout the land, proving beyond doubt that he was a man of the people.

The citizens of Jerusalem wept over those dead children, not for their grandfather David’s sake but for Absalom’s.

A
FTER
WATCHING
MY
SONS
TRAIN
with Abishai and other members of the Thirty, I left the practice field and walked back to my apartment. The afternoon was bathed in honey-thick sunshine, and it felt good to stretch my legs.

I smiled when I thought of my boys. Solomon was a fair swordsman, but he had inherited my father’s height and my lean frame, so he would never be known for physical strength. The twins, Shammua and Shobab, were stocky and square like their father and would make good soldiers when the time came. At seventeen, they were older than David had been when he killed Goliath, yet Israel did not conscript soldiers under the age of twenty.

My youngest, Nathan, was fifteen, and though he might have to fight one day, I prayed he would not. He had inherited the sensitive side of David’s nature, so I hoped he would spend his days serving
Adonai as a musician or a poet. Like all princes, he had to train in the art of warfare, but it did not suit his nature.

I nodded at the guard posted at an inconspicuous gate in the palace wall, then slipped through the opening and crossed the harem courtyard. Few of the king’s women would be stirring at this hour unless they covered themselves with scarves and veils to protect their skin from the hot sun.

I paused at a fountain when I saw three men leaving Abigail’s chamber. I recognized two of them as royal physicians, but the third was a stranger. I let the fountain spray my fingers as I considered the unusual guests. Who was sick in Abigail’s quarters? One of her maids or the lady herself?

I ran my wet fingers over the warm skin at my neck, then decided to seek my own answers. I hadn’t seen Abigail in several weeks, and we usually crossed paths at least every few days. But nearly all of David’s wives attended worship at the Tabernacle on feast days, and lately I hadn’t seen Abigail at those ceremonies, either.

The door was slightly ajar when I approached, so I knocked softly and pushed it open. “Hello?”

Before anyone had time to answer, I saw Abigail seated on the edge of her bed, her hair piled on top of her head and her chest bare. Her handmaid was struggling to wrap a wide linen strip around her mistress’s chest, and with one downward glance I saw why. Abigail’s left breast was malformed, distorted with purple lumps, one of which had broken open to reveal a suppurating tumor.

“Oh!” Upon seeing me, Abigail raised her hands to try to hide her disfigurement, discomfiting the handmaid all the more. The poor girl broke into tears, and after a speechless moment in which every word left my head, I stepped forward and said the only words that came to mind: “I’m so sorry.”

Abigail released a heavy sigh, then dropped her defensive posture and gave me a sad smile. “Sometimes it happens,” she said simply.
“The physicians have no answers, but they do give me herbs for the pain.”

A wave of guilt washed over me, slumping my shoulders and leaving me weak-kneed. I had envied this woman so many times—her pleasant features, her charming smile, her open countenance. Most of all, I had envied the relationship she shared with David. Even though she had only given him one son, she knew things about him that I might never know, because they were friends.

“Abigail.” I sank to a stool, then rose on impulse and took the linen strip from the weeping handmaid. Dismissing the girl with a nod, I held the edges and looked into Abigail’s eyes. “I’m sorry this has happened to you,” I told her. “But let me help. If you would raise your arms . . .”

She did, and with the skill I’d gained from dressing rambunctious little boys, I wrapped the linen around her breasts, careful not to cause her pain. I padded the festering area with loose cotton, then wrapped another layer over the first. When I had finished, I dropped a silk tunic over her head, helped her stand, and gently tied a fabric belt at her slender waist.

“Mirza means well,” Abigail murmured, speaking of her maid. “But the sight of my disfigurement frightens her.”

“What does David say?”

“I have not seen him since . . .” She looked away as her words trailed off.

The sight of such an awful wound was enough to shock anyone, but what could a woman do? In this, as in all things in which we were powerless, we could only trust Adonai to help us endure what must be endured.

I helped Abigail back to her bed, lifted her feet onto the mattress, and propped her up with pillows. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen much of you,” I offered in a pitiful attempt to make conversation. “Now I understand.”

Anyone with a festering sore was unclean according to our law and had to be separated from others. Abigail could not attend worship or visit David, and anyone who touched her would have to wash their clothes, bathe in water, and be unclean until evening—including me.

Abigail moved a pillow over her chest and wrapped her arms around it. “Actually, I’m glad we have this time to talk alone. I know my days are numbered, and there is much I want to say to you.”

“I remember,” I assured her, “what you said the last time we spoke. At first I wasn’t sure I could trust you, but now I know you had only good intentions.”

“The king and I—” a coughing spasm interrupted her—“are the same age. We are friends. And as his friend I have always tried to rejoice when he rejoices and weep when he weeps. I have also cared for those he loves. And the woman he loves most, Bathsheba, is you.”

I moved to the stool by the bed. “I care a great deal for him. I hope you know I would never hurt him.”

“I worried about you in the beginning.” A glaze seemed to come down over her damp eyes. “You were so beautiful, and experience has taught me that beautiful women are dangerous. Their beauty gives them power over men, and some of them use it against the king, or try to.”

She gave me a secretive smile, and I knew she was talking about Maacah, mother to Tamar and Absalom. Maacah had always demanded the best for herself and her children—the best garments, the best tutors, the best mounts, the best accommodations. The woman did not know the meaning of the word
humility
.

“I would never—”

“I know you wouldn’t; such selfishness is not part of your nature. But I didn’t know you at first. I only knew David was smitten with your beauty. He brought you to the palace because he knew
what would happen if he abandoned you. And because you were so devastated and grief-stricken because of what he’d done to your husband, he determined to do anything in his power to make you happy. And in doing so, he began to love
you
, the woman beneath the beautiful face and form.”

Her expression softened into one of fond reminiscence. “I knew my lord and king had finally found a woman worthy of his love. Yet with all you had endured, I wondered if you could really care for him. I still wonder, but at least I know you will not be cruel to him. You are not cruel by nature.”

“I . . .” I floundered in a desperate search for words. I wanted to give this woman an answer that would set her at ease, but what could I say? I respected David, I cared for him greatly, and I enjoyed his company. But did my heart leap at his approach like it did when I waited for Uriah to come home?

No. I did not love him that way.

I reached across the empty space between us and took Abigail’s hand. “I will always care for him,” I promised her. “He is the father of my sons, my lord and my king. You can be sure I will never harm him.”

She drew a deep breath and smiled, though I saw the gleam of disappointment in her eyes. She had hoped for more, and I could not give it.

But at least Abigail and I now understood each other.

Absalom did not often come to court, but when he did I frequently felt the pressure of his gaze on me. He would sit with other tribal leaders in the throne room, usually across from the area members of the royal family occupied. Frequently I looked up and caught him staring at me; once or twice he even smiled. When he was not looking at me, I noticed he watched his father, and his
expression grew more alert whenever David looked at me to share a smile or some other unspoken communication.

Once I leaned over and whispered in Michal’s ear, “Is it my imagination or does Absalom seem unusually interested in the king’s wives?”

She watched in silence for a moment, then confirmed what I’d been too discreet to verbalize. “It’s not the king’s wives that interests him. It’s you. He watches you, then looks at the king, then returns his gaze to you. It is almost as if he would test the bond between you and David.”

When Absalom stopped coming to court, I dismissed the matter from my mind. But one day my servant came in from outside, closed the door behind her, and dropped to her knees.

“My lady, forgive me if I am being intrusive.”

I put down the garment I had been sewing for Solomon, now quite the man at twenty. “What is it?”

The woman kept her eyes downcast. “I am acquainted with a man who stands guard at the king’s bedchamber. We were speaking in the garden, and he remarked that one of Absalom’s servants had been asking him questions. I’m sorry to bother you with this, my lady, but I thought you ought to know.”

My nerves tightened. “Go on.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Apparently the servant from Absalom’s house inquired as to which woman the king sends for each night, who is summoned most often, and who is the king’s favorite. My friend said he tried to avoid giving a direct answer, but the man became quite persistent.”

I waited, but my servant appeared uncertain about proceeding. “Persistent in what way? Please, speak freely.”

She lifted her gaze to meet mine. “The man from Absalom’s house finally asked if you were the favorite wife. The guard was put off by the question, but when the man invoked his master’s
name and insisted on an answer, he admitted that you spent more time with the king than any other woman. Then Absalom’s servant departed.”

I thanked my servant for her honesty and dismissed her, then sat in silence and sorted through a maze of troubling thoughts. Absalom wanted to know if I was the favorite wife. I could think of only one reason that might cause a prince to care about which wife the king favored. He wanted to know if David had promised that wife that her son would ascend to the throne. If he truly believed I was first in the king’s heart, Absalom would be certain to draw a target on my eldest son. On Solomon.

A few days later, my handmaid was arranging my hair when a messenger pounded on my door. I gave my servant leave to answer, and a moment later she returned with news that the king’s chief counselor wanted to see me at once. “Is it so urgent?” I tugged at a wayward curl. “I will be leaving my chamber before long—”

“The counselor said he’d be waiting in the garden,” my maid answered, clearly flustered. “Please, my lady, he seemed most anxious. Do not keep him waiting.”

What could Grandfather be worried about now? I thanked my handmaid for her efforts, then pulled a mantle over my sleeveless tunic. I did not like to go outside in the brutal afternoon sun, but Grandfather would not be put off.

I found him seated by a fountain, his forehead dotted with perspiration and his bony foot tapping with impatience. “Bathsheba!” Despite his obvious irritation at my delay, he stood, took my hands, and kissed my forehead. “Come, let us walk. I want to extend an invitation to you—and to your sons.”

I lifted a brow. “An invitation?”

“Please.” Grandfather gestured to the path that led to the balcony. “Let us walk.”

I took his arm and noticed that my grandfather seemed intent on getting us away from the shaded areas where we might be overheard by servants or gardeners. His lined face offered no clues, so I walked slowly, keeping pace with his unsteady stride. By my calculations, Grandfather was seventy-seven years old, yet still as quick and stubborn as he had ever been.

“I have made plans,” Grandfather said, “to spend the summer at my farm in Giloh.”

“Good. You always enjoy your time there, don’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? It is a restful place. This year I would like you and your boys to join me there. I am not long for this world, Bathsheba, and before I join my fathers I would like to spend some time with my granddaughter away from the palace. Please say you’ll join me in Giloh.”