Queenmaker (22 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Queenmaker
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“Oh, Michal, it is so hot!” Bathsheba’s lament was almost constant—she was a hill girl from beyond Lake Kinneret, and this was her first city summer. “Why, the women at the well told me that if you leave a shield or a mirror in the sun for an hour at noon you can fry meat on it after, and that the soldiers always cook their food so in summer. Is it true?”
I laughed and shook my head. “They say so every summer—but the only thing that will fry is your hand when you take up your mirror again.” I waved the peacock fan again, slowly, and the royal feathers glittered. “And they say every summer that it is the hottest that even their grandfather can remember, but that is not true either.”
Bathsheba stared at me round-eyed. “Do you mean it can grow hotter than this?”
“Oh, yes—but the heat does not last forever. Take heart, in another month at most you will sleep cool at night.”
“A month? Another month of this? Oh, I shall die of it!”
I thought the poor girl would burst into tears for fear of roasting to death on the spot. I could think of nothing that would ease her, and then I looked at the cistern in the corner of the roof. The stone vessel was deep, still full from the last rains; the water stored within would be cool—or at least cooler than the air. I set down my fan and took Bathsheba’s from her hot damp fingers.
“Come,” I said, and pointed to the cistern. “It is too hot for talk—and there is cool water. I will pour for you, and you for me.”
Bathsheba hesitated, and looked up across the way to the palace. I laughed and began to unpin my gown. “Do not worry, no one will see. That is my balcony, and mine alone, and I am here.”
I looked up, then; high stone walls hid what lay behind them from prying eyes below. Sun-glare on stone dazzled the eye and hid still more. The queen’s balcony was far away from the world of women’s housetops. My skin was suddenly chill under the sweat.
“But—your serving-women—”
When Bathsheba spoke the chill vanished; I laughed again. “Have seen women before, and often. We are all alike in the bath. Oh, come—if I am not too proud to serve as your bath-maid, are you too proud to serve as mine?”
She came, then. She truly did not wish to fight the water’s cool lure any more than I—and she was still young enough to wish to be thought more worldly than she was.
 
 
After that Bathsheba bathed often on her housetop when the wind was hot and the sun cruel. I warned her it was folly to use cistern water so freely, but she was young enough to still think the moment everything. So I held my tongue; the summer was hard on her, and I could order her house given water, if it came to that.
Was I not the queen, after all?
And so I wove disaster, all unknowing. I liked to go to Bathsheba’s house; the dwelling was small and full of homely comforts, and what I thought myself used to. Bathsheba was my friend,
as Miriam had once been, and Zhurleen. I should have remembered, and taken greater care; I drew eyes to Bathsheba. David’s eyes. And I think, now, that David knew what he would do long before the day he came to my balcony and saw Bathsheba bathing there below, with her dark hair piled upon her head and all her skin bright with water in the harsh white sun.
 
 
The day burned hotter even than all those searing days before it; the sky was a glowing bronze cauldron over the city trapped beneath. I had gone to Bathsheba and we did nothing but stand naked and pour water over each other. The cistern water was warm as blood now, but we cherished it as if the liquid were melted snow fresh from the high hills.
I was trickling the precious water down Bathsheba’s back when she squeaked and jumped like a trapped mouse. “Michal—a man watches us—see, on your balcony!”
I knew before I turned and looked; it was David, of course. No other man would stand on the queen’s balcony Even through the heat-hazy air I could feel his eyes upon us.
Bathsheba stood as if struck to stone. “Oh, Michal—is that the king?”
“Yes,” I said, and stood between Bathsheba and David’s eyes. “I am sorry, Bathsheba—I thought him still at Rabbah.”
“He is gone. Oh, but he is beautiful, Michal—he was golden as glass in the sun. You are the most fortunate of women, to be queen to such a king!”
“Bathsheba, listen to me. Do not bathe here during the day until I send you word your roof is safe from prying eyes once more.”
“Do not worry. The king will not look at me, when he has you.” Her dove’s eyes were soft as morning mist.
I wanted to slap sense into her foolish pretty head. Once I might have, but I was older now, and knew it would do no good. Bathsheba was blinded by David’s glory, as I once had been. So I
kissed her instead, before I went back to the palace, and told myself it could do Bathsheba little harm to dream of David.
And that much was true enough; the harm would come if David dreamed of her. A king’s dreams need not cease with waking. It worried me, that thought. Then I thought of the good captain Uriah, who had brought King David ten well-armed men, and now captained fifty.
David was not a fool. Never would he risk anything for a woman. No, not even though, as Zhurleen had once laughingly told me, he had a taste for them. Well, and so did all men; what was that, after all, but the way a man was made?
You fret over nothing, Michal,
I told myself
Nothing. David looked upon her, that is all.
But still I was uneasy. And I wished with all my heart that I had been close enough to see David’s eyes when he had looked upon Bathsheba.
 
 
David came to me that night. He could not keep away, he said. “When a man has been in battle, he thinks of his wife.”
“And when he is with his wife, he thinks of battle? Then he will never be satisfied.”
“Oh, I am well content. You have made me so.” He lay there beside me, with his hands upon my body, and asked, as I had feared he would. “Who is the woman I saw you with today? Is that your Bathsheba?”
“The wife of Uriah the Hittite,” I said. “Yes, that is Bathsheba.”
“I had not heard she was so beautiful. She is like a dove of the rocks.” He stroked my breast; I lay quiet.
“Yes, she is beautiful,” I said. “But take care how you praise her—I do not think Uriah would like to know his king had looked so upon his wife.” I kept my voice light, to show I knew David’s words were no more than idle talk, leaves blown by the wind.
David smiled as if he knew more than I. “If Uriah’s wife did
not wish to be looked upon, she would not bathe naked in the sunlight.”
“I, too, bathed naked in the sun. Would you say the same of me.
“You? A man would be too dazzled to lift his eyes to you. You are an idol to worship, all gold and honey in the sun—”
But when David wove words into pretty patterns, I no longer listened. “Bathsheba is a good country girl, chaste and modest. She followed only where I led her, safe on her own housetop where no man could see.”
“No man save the king.”
“No,” I said. “No man save the king.”
“Well, the king’s eyes alone will not ravish her—a royal look, they say, brings luck.”
David’s eyes were hot; something seemed to lurk there. Something that hungered. I looked into those eyes, and hoped he lusted only for Bathsheba. That was a clean lust, a man’s lust. That, at least, was something I could understand.
“Do you go back soon to Rabbah, to the siege?” I was so eager to turn his mind from Bathsheba that I hardly knew what I said.
“No,” he said. “No, not soon. Joab can do all that is needful there, for a time.”
 
 
I had been right to fear; I had not dreamed David would truly be so foolish. But he was. All his own women—his queen, his wives, his concubines, his handmaidens—all these women were not enough. No, David must have Bathsheba.
He sent for her; he lay with her; he could not sleep for love of her. He burned hot for her; hotter than the summer wind. So hissed palace whispers. Kings with many servants have few secrets.
I learned of his new folly from David himself. He came to me late one night and I smelled chypre and sweet spice when he embraced me. A perfume that had not suited me; I had given the
perfume to Bathsheba and combed it into her long dark hair myself. She had been pleased with the scent and twice pleased because it was my gift. She always wore it now.
So I knew, then, but said nothing to David. And I knew, too, why Bathsheba’s cheeks had burned red as country poppies when I last spoke to her; why her eyes had not met mine; why I had seen her so little for the past two weeks.
Why today she had sent to say she could not come to me at all, and that I must not go to her.
Ill; Bathsheba had said she was ill. Now I called her illness by its true name: David.
 
 
The next morning I questioned my maids. They had heard, they told me. But rumors only, O Queen! They had not dared to tell me.
“To spare me pain? How much more pain for me when others can mock my blindness?” I looked at them all, and knew true obedience now lay in the balance. After today either I ruled them or they me. I stood quiet a moment and then slapped Narkis.
She wept, though the blow had been light, and swore they had kept silent only for love of me.
“Fine love, that leaves me naked to scorn and laughter! Did you think I did not know, or would not find out? Now go, and remember you serve a queen, not some sniveling village wife!”
They fled away like deer, all but Narkis, whom I called back. My blow had smeared the paint upon her cheek; I held out my hand so that she might wipe away the carmine from my fingers. She did so carefully; I watched her, and waited until she had done.
Then I said, “Chuldah no longer serves me. Do you know why?”
“Because she displeased you, O Queen.” Narkis bowed her head, meek at last.
“No,” I said. “That is not the reason. Chuldah no longer serves
me because she was foolish, and thought the crown the woman. Do you understand?”
Narkis eyed me straight. Pale eyes, like a hawk’s; proud but cautious. At last she said, “Someone who would serve Michal, and not the queen’s crown …”
“Would be rewarded,” I said.
Still Narkis waited, eyes downcast and hooded now. What had I ever done, that Narkis should believe me? I turned the memories of my life here in the king’s house over in my mind, like pebbles in the hand. Most were dull and ugly things, harsh to touch even now. But here and there among them were some that shone white; gleams of alabaster, smooth and pleasing.
“Do you remember a woman called Zhurleen?” I asked at last. “A dark woman, comely, from Philistia?”
Narkis looked up quickly; the caution was back. Well, it was an odd question, from a woman Narkis already thought half-mad. She nodded. “Yes. I remember her.”
“And so do I.” I paused. “But the king does not. My memory is longer than his.”
And then we both looked at each other, plainly, like two housewives judging pigeons for the stew-pot. I smiled.
“Oh, I do not go against the king,” I said. “But the king is far away from the women’s quarters; I am here. You know what trust the king places in me—and so I do not wish always to be running after him, whining and beseeching, like the Lady Abigail.”
I looked sharp as I said that; Narkis looked down again, tapped the silver bracelets upon her slender wrist. The bangles rang together, small sweet noise. “The Lady Abigail speaks against you.”
“Yes.” Even I knew that, and I had gone half-blind and half-deaf this last year. And then I tried to think what next to say.
Never before had I tried to win someone like this; a task as delicate as bringing a wild bird to hand. I did not know how it might be done, save to speak frank truth, as Zhurleen had once spoken to me. But Zhurleen had spoken truth, and still I had not believed. I had not wished to. I must make Narkis wish to believe;
I despaired, for I did not know how. I was tired; I could not do this; I nearly shrugged and turned away from Narkis. And then I found words sliding unbidden from my lips.
“Abigail is not important. She is neither good nor wise—and her son Chileab is a lazy fool, too easy content. Chileab will not be the next king.” It was as if another spoke for me, answering my need.
Narkis was listening now, head tilted, hand closed over the silver bracelets to silence them. I smiled, and spoke on.
“David is king now, and that is a wonder and a glory to our people. But who will follow him?” Until I asked, I myself had never wondered; I had not cared.
But now I knew it was a question that many must ask, including David himself. Yahweh had chosen King Saul—so the prophet Samuel had said; Yahweh had chosen King David—so David had said. Would King David sit idle on his throne and let Yahweh choose a third time? I heard Zhurleen’s laughter in my ears, low and throaty; I heard her soft voice that sounded of wave and ocean saying,
“With NATHAN for his prophet? O Queen, live forever
—
and do not be a foul!
”

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