Queenmaker (28 page)
Authors: India Edghill
And then Bathsheba stretched to kiss me upon the cheek, and smiled. Her eyes were bright as crystal in the sun.
In the king’s bedroom, David dropped secrets into my ears like jewels into a well, knowing the jewels would be forever lost in darkness.
In the queen’s garden Solomon clasped Bathsheba’s forefinger in his left hand, and mine in his right, and took his first unsteady steps, balanced safe between love and love.
Beads upon a golden thread; a necklace of life. I dwelt behind walls of stone and silence, and for a time the world beyond seemed far away.
And so I cherished Solomon as if he were my son, and Bathsheba as if she were my sister. And for a sweet span of years, while Solomon grew from babe to boy, there was the peace his naming had promised.
Yes, a sweet span of peace—but a brief one. As Nathan had prophesied before Solomon was born, trouble was bred within David’s own house. King David had too many wives, and they had too many children, and David was too soft with them all. His sons had too much freedom, and his daughters also, and they were all hot-headed and hot-blooded.
But who could have foreseen how it would happen, or what grief it would cause? Before it was over, many good men lay dead in battle, and David lost two sons, and a daughter too. And for no good cause, save that King David would not heed the whisper of the passing years.
The seasons had turned once more to harvest-time, rounding a year that had brought a full harvest of power to King David. The summer that Solomon was seven King David had called up his army, well-honed by years of smaller victories, and turned it at last against the Philistines. David’s folly, some had called it before the battle; Yahweh’s will, they called it after. Yahweh’s vengeance upon the Philistines for the slaughter upon Mount Gilboa a dozen years before, when King Saul and his sons had perished.
I called it nothing; I only smiled, when David was praised
before me, and said that I had never doubted. That was true: I had known David would defeat the Philistines. The Philistines had trusted David, and paid the price of that trust.
before me, and said that I had never doubted. That was true: I had known David would defeat the Philistines. The Philistines had trusted David, and paid the price of that trust.
King David laid all credit at Yahweh’s feet. It was Yahweh, King David said, who had won this great victory. It was Yahweh who was honored with the great feast and festival that was held in Jerusalem. A great day, and greatness to honor Yahweh.
But it was not Yahweh who walked the streets of Jerusalem with a golden crown upon his head and scarlet boots upon his feet. It was David. An image flashed behind my eyes; David the king dancing before the sacred Ark, a flame in sunlight. But that had been long years ago, before Solomon was born. Today the king did not share glory.
Today King David led a procession through the city in solemn majesty. He was all dignity, all a king; that day David did not dance. He led, and his sons followed, glittering princes all. Even Solomon wore a circlet of gold about his head and walked with the other princes. The youngest, and so least in precedence, but he walked beside King David, and the king clasped Solomon’s hand in his. David knew what men and women liked to see.
Yes, the king first, and the princes next. And then came the prophet Nathan, and the high priests Zadok and Abiathar.
I watched all this from the palace roof with the other women. The king’s women made as fine a show as the princes; scarlet and purple swirled about our bodies, jewels hung heavy about our throats. Any who raised his eyes from the king would see the king’s women, and the king’s wealth.
“Look,” said Bathsheba. “See how straight Solomon walks! Oh, he is the best boy in all the world!”
“But he is the youngest,” Abigail said. “Solomon will never be king.” Abigail would not speak to me, but she would torment Bathsheba, if she could.
Bathsheba would not be drawn; she looked puzzled. “But Solomon is much too young to be king, Abigail—why, he is only a little boy!”
I laughed, and set my hand over Bathsheba’s. “Of course Solomon is the youngest—all men know the king could never look at another woman, once he had seen Bathsheba’s face!”
“Oh, Michal, you know that is not true!” Bathsheba blushed, and I smiled and kissed her cheek. Abigail flushed and turned away, to Eglah and Abital. I laughed again, and saw Abigail’s shoulders tense.
“Ah, Bathsheba, you are too good. You should not let her speak so to you.” I stood back from the wall; I had seen David’s pride before.
Bathsheba’s eyes were soft. “But I am so sorry for her—her son dead, and she cares nothing for her girls—I do not understand why she does not—” Abigail’s son Chileab had been killed in battle two summers ago; David lauded him a hero, and praised him now as he never had while Chileab lived.
“You are right to reprove me; I should be kinder to her.” I thought of Abigail, aging now, and with neither husband nor son to comfort her. David had little time for her, and her son was dead. Did she wish now that she had stayed with her first husband Nabal, honored in his house? But David had wanted her husband’s wealth, and Abigail had wanted David, and so Nabal died. Now Abigail grew old in the king’s house, no more to him than any other woman.
“Oh, no—I did not mean—”
“Of course you did not, my love. But you are right.” I stepped forward again, watching David’s procession wind away from the palace, into the city streets below.
David the king, holding Prince Solomon’s small hand. Solomon flushed with boy’s pride, walking straight and trying to be solemn and manly. Men called David’s name; women smiled and called Solomon’s, to be kind.
Prince Amnon, the eldest, drew cheers from men and women both; Amnon smiled, and waved back, and bent to catch up the flowers tossed before his feet.
“Amnon!”
The call came high and clear from Amnon’s little half-sister Tamar, who pressed against the wall a dozen paces from me.
“Amnon!”
do not know if Amnon
heard or if he only chanced to look up; he smiled, and blew a kiss from his fingertips up to Tamar.
“Amnon!”
The call came high and clear from Amnon’s little half-sister Tamar, who pressed against the wall a dozen paces from me.
“Amnon!”
do not know if Amnon
heard or if he only chanced to look up; he smiled, and blew a kiss from his fingertips up to Tamar.
Tamar flushed, and called his name louder.
“Amnon!”
And she pulled copper bangles from her wrist to fling them down before him; her mother Maachah caught her hand and the bangles fell instead to the stones at Tamar’s feet. I could not hear what Maachah said to Tamar; the noise from the street below was too great.
“Amnon!”
And she pulled copper bangles from her wrist to fling them down before him; her mother Maachah caught her hand and the bangles fell instead to the stones at Tamar’s feet. I could not hear what Maachah said to Tamar; the noise from the street below was too great.
Beside Amnon strode Prince Absalom, the second son—also straight and beautiful. But his pace was measured, haughty as a peacock. Absalom was as proud as his mother Maachah, who was the King of Geshur’s daughter—and had never forgotten it. Tamar did not call out Absalom’s name, although he was her full brother.
And then Adonijah, and Ithream, and all the rest of the princes. A dozen fine sons still left to King David, even after all the years of war.
And after all the princes of the House of David came the prophet, and the priests. Once Nathan would have led the victory procession. Now the prophet followed after the king.
Does that mean much, or little?
Nathan still stood beside David’s throne; the king still gave up sacrifices to the priests and bowed low before them.
Does Nathan smile today, as he swallows dust from David’s feet?
Does that mean much, or little?
Nathan still stood beside David’s throne; the king still gave up sacrifices to the priests and bowed low before them.
Does Nathan smile today, as he swallows dust from David’s feet?
“How things change.” Bathsheba leaned over the wall to watch Solomon out of sight. “Why, it seems only yesterday that I first held Solomon in my arms. Look at him now—why, he is past seven!”
“Time passing; a marvel indeed.”
Following Yahweh’s men, Joab’s. Joab, who was to King David what Abner had been to King Saul. Joab paced the streets as if they were a battlefield; behind him came his captains carrying iron swords taken from the Philistines. The captains waved the Philistine swords high so that all might see what had been won. The captured blades glinted sullen in the sun.
I drew back again, lest Joab look up; I could never bear to look into his eyes. I feared what I might see there—or not see. For battles are uncertain, and in them many men die. And so I wondered,
sometimes, if David had ever sent Joab a message concerning the Hittite captain Uriah, who was husband to the woman Bathsheba. Perhaps Uriah had died clean in battle, as any man might. Perhaps if I looked into Joab’s eyes, I would see nothing.
sometimes, if David had ever sent Joab a message concerning the Hittite captain Uriah, who was husband to the woman Bathsheba. Perhaps Uriah had died clean in battle, as any man might. Perhaps if I looked into Joab’s eyes, I would see nothing.
“Look, Michal—see how the Philistine blades flash in the sunlight! How terrible they look—I could never be a warrior, never. I would die of fright. They are so brave, our men!”
“Yes, they are brave—and foolish too.”
“Fools?” Bathsheba was shocked, of course. “Our good brave men?”
“Yes, fools—what does it buy men in the end, all that blood they spill so easily?”
Bathsheba looked down at David’s soldiers, and frowned. “I—well, I do not know. But men must be soldiers.”
“Of course. And the blood makes the crops grow thick.”
“Michal, you cannot mean that. That is what idolaters think!”
“And they are right,” I said. “Look at the farms in the vale of Gilboa now, and on the plains of Hebron. Men say such a rich harvest has not been seen since their grandfathers’ times.”
Bathsheba looked at me, and then away. “Well, if that is true—then at least the dead warriors still feed their children.”
“Bathsheba!” I stared, and then laughed. “Well, and so they do. You see? You are always cleverer than I.”
“No, no—I only try to think and speak as you do, Michal.”
I was silent a moment. “Never do that, Bathsheba. It is you I love, not my mirror.”
She did not understand, and only smiled. “You have no reason to fear, Michal. They say you are still as beautiful as you were when you were a girl.”
I laughed. “I was the plainest maiden in all Israel, and I remember that well, even if ‘they’ do not! Tell another!”
“Well, then—that you are still as beautiful as when you first came to Jerusalem. As if it were yesterday.” Bathsheba leaned out farther. “Oh, I cannot see the princes anymore. Do you think Solomon will be all right?”
“He will be fine; you must not over-coddle him, my love.” My face was smooth as my silver mirror, and told as little to the watcher. Bathsheba’s careless words coiled themselves into my mind.
“As if it were yesterday … .
”
“As if it were yesterday … .
”
“It was not yesterday,” I said.
“What was not?” Bathsheba was not attending; she always loved a fine show. “Oh, look—Philistine chariots—see, Michal—”
And so I spoke only to myself. “It has been ten years.”
Yes, it had been ten years since King David sent Abner to take King Saul’s daughter from her husband and bring her to Jerusalem. David liked to think himself always the young hero, the beloved. But David was past forty, an aging man; his sons were the young heroes now. Amnon, Absalom, Adonijah—they were his captains; they rode through the streets in their chariots and the people praised them as they had once praised David when he was a war-captain for my father King Saul.
I thought of that, later. Many years have passed since that day; I still wonder, sometimes, if King David suspected Amnon of playing young David’s own game. A young hero; a king’s daughter—did David think the next move was a prince’s rebellion?
Well, and David was right, after all. But Amnon was innocent of anything but unwise love.
It was Absalom whose heart was rotted through with ambition.
“Absalom the son of David had a fair sister, whose name was Tamar; and Amnon the son of David loved her.
”
”
—II Samuel 13:1
Amnon was tall and strong, like all of David’s sons, but far more beautiful than the rest. And Tamar, Amnon’s sister—well, she was young, and he dazzled her eyes like sun on a mountain lake.
So when Prince Amnon returned from the battles he fought and won for King David, Tamar was there to call his name and garland his neck with flower-chains woven with her own hands. And she would cling to him and kiss him on the mouth. Amnon took the kisses and laughed, and called Tamar his dearest little sister.
“See how fond Amnon and Tamar are,” David said, smiling upon them. “Why cannot all my children live in peace together as they do?”
I could have told David that he himself ensured he had no peace under his own roof. David thought he loved his children—yes, so long as they were beautiful and perfect, like painted princes and princesses upon a palace wall. And so he sometimes petted and spoiled them, and sometimes curbed them sharp. They never knew, when they ran to him, if they would be greeted by the father or the king. Uncertainty made them quarrel over his favor, vying for a place in the sunlight of his smile. David liked to be the sun. But too much sunlight, or too little, and the crop withers and dies in the field.
So David smiled upon Amnon and Tamar, and encouraged the
girl to run to her brother. “Go—greet our conquering hero. A boy needs to know he has done well in his first campaigns. Praise him, and tell him I am pleased.”
girl to run to her brother. “Go—greet our conquering hero. A boy needs to know he has done well in his first campaigns. Praise him, and tell him I am pleased.”
Yes, David smiled upon Amnon and Tamar—then. And where King David smiled, so did all his household. We all watched, and spoke of the girl’s sweet nature and her brother’s kindness, and were blind. Yes, even I.
I think even Amnon himself was blind at first; she was his father’s daughter, after all. And he had known her since she was new-born, and he a boy of six. Oh, he was fond enough, but careless, as a man might be with a child.
But Tamar was a child no longer; she had put on her veil, and thought herself a woman. She had round breasts and soft dark doe’s eyes, and she was as full of warm love as a ripe pomegranate of seeds. And she was only his half-sister, when all was said.
I counted myself clever, and even I did not see how it truly was between Tamar and Amnon. Not until the day that I came upon them in my garden, hidden away behind the lilies that banked the pool, did I see clearly. And then I saw too much, and too little.
That day I had gone with Bathsheba into the upper town, as I sometimes did, to see the wares a new merchant offered David’s court. Many merchants passed through Jerusalem, now; this one brought small treasures from a land far to the east: silver boxes shaped like pomegranates, scarves embroidered with sky-bright feathers, sandalwood combs to scent the hair. Veils woven of gold and silver. Gems that flashed cat’s-eyes.
The merchant’s wares were strange and fine enough for any queen. But the day was hot, and I had lain half the night awake, listening to David tell what he would do now that the sea-cities of Philistia were open to him, and the price of Philistine iron was something less than blood. And I had seen gold and silver and
gems before. So I smiled upon the merchant and told Bathsheba I was tired, and would leave her to make purchases for me.
gems before. So I smiled upon the merchant and told Bathsheba I was tired, and would leave her to make purchases for me.
“For you always know what pleases me. And do not forget to buy for yourself as well. King David can afford to be generous.” And I kissed Bathsheba, and went back to the king’s palace, and to the queen’s courtyard.
And to my garden. And there I found Amnon, and Tamar. Together, among the lilies by the little pool.
They lay close-pressed as if bound together; Tamar’s braids chained Amnon with living copper, fire-hot in the sun. They did not hear me. They would not have heard the king’s guard in full armor. They were beautiful against the lilies.
I watched them as they kissed. It was not a sister’s lips that Tamar offered Amnon. And it was not a brother’s kiss that he gave her in return. It was not a brother’s hands that stroked her yielding body.
I clapped my hands together and called out Tamar’s name, making my voice sharp and hard. They fell apart and struggled to their feet; Tamar’s long braids tangled in her brother’s bracelets, trapping them together. Amnon would have freed them, but Tamar gripped him hard, staring at me with eyes still soft from passion. I saw white on his arm, framing her clinging fingers.
For a moment we all stood there, frozen in the sunlight like bees in amber. Then I spoke as I must. “Is this how you care for your sister, Prince Amnon? This is not well done.”
Amnon bowed his head. “I know, Queen Michal.” Amnon’s voice was steady, strong as the sun-hot stones of the garden wall behind him. “I am sorry; I thought we would be gone before you returned. We came only to talk where we might be truly alone. A quiet place is hard to find in the king’s house.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“And then—we did not know, until we kissed. And then—well, you saw.”
Tamar’s face was hot and red as hearth-coals. She stared at me, and bit her lip hard, but did not speak. I thought she was wise to
keep silent; I remembered the follies I had spoken, when I was as young as she.
keep silent; I remembered the follies I had spoken, when I was as young as she.
“Yes, I saw. You have mistaken a brother’s—a sister’s—fondness for more. I had heard that it happens; such lust will pass, if you do not trespass again. So I will say nothing, and forgive the harm you have done my lilies.”
“No! It is not like that!” Tamar’s voice trembled. “Oh, please—” She did not say what she pled for; perhaps she did not know herself.
Amnon put his hand over Tamar’s and gently urged her fingers from his flesh. Then his hands worked softly, unweaving Tamar’s braid from his golden bracelet. “It is all right, sister. There is nothing to fear.”
“Not from me.” I could not be cruel to them; they were so young. “But Prince Amnon, is this wise?”
“No,” Amnon said. “It is not wise. But we share one heart, Tamar and I.” He looked straight into my eyes. His own were hero’s eyes; eyes to obey
“And now?” I asked.
Amnon looked down at his little sister and smiled. “Well, Tamar?”
She blushed poppy-bright. “I—it is not for me to say.”
“Then I will.” Amnon put his arm about her shoulders and hugged her to him. “I will ask the king for her; she will be my wife. I would never dishonor my sister.”
“Oh, Amnon!” Tamar melted against him, molded to him. Yes, she was his, heart and blood.
Amnon smiled at her once more; a man’s smile for the woman he finds most fair under all the sky My own heart ached; a small pang only, as an old wound might pain an aging warrior.
“I wish you well,” I said, and smiled, and the little pain was gone again.
“The queen is kind.” Amnon caught up Tamar’s hand in his; their fingers twined together, a lover’s knot to flesh. “Come, beloved—we have trespassed in the queen’s garden long enough.”
“Yes—the queen is kind—I am sorry—” Tamar stammered, and blushed, and Amnon drew her away.
I laughed, and watched them go, walking slowly down the path to my garden gate. Tamar pressed close against Amnon, as if she could no longer walk alone. The sun struck flame and fire from their shining hair.
When they were gone, I looked at the lily-bed. The stems were crushed and flat to the ground where Tamar and Amnon had lain twined together. Fairer than lilies.
And with all their future spread like a new-woven carpet before their feet. There was no good reason Amnon might not have Tamar; they shared only a father, after all. In other lands royal brothers and sisters wed as a matter of course.
And for that reason, if for no other, I knew that David would smile upon them, and bless their union.
What other kings possess, that too must King David have.
What other kings possess, that too must King David have.
I smiled again, and bent to see what I might save, out of all my ruined lilies.
The next morning I spoke to my maid Narkis as she combed my hair. “Prince Amnon and Princess Tamar—tell me what men say of them.”
“Nothing, until yesterday.” Narkis combed on, steady; in her skilled hands the ivory comb never caught on tangles, never pulled too sharp.
“And then?”
“And then Prince Amnon went to King David and asked if he might wed his sister the Princess Tamar.”
Well, and why should he not? “And King David said?”
“The king laughed, and said the princess was too young to think of marriage yet.”
“She is near fourteen.”
“So Prince Amnon said.”
“And the king answered?”
“That there was time and to spare to think of futures, and that he would not be tormented by his own children.” Narkis set aside the comb and rubbed my hair with a perfumed cloth, long stroke on stroke, to make it shine. “Prince Absalom too was there.”
“Did he too speak?”
Narkis finished polishing my hair and gathered up the comb again. She lifted my lily-scented hair. “He did. Will the queen have two braids upon each side, or three?”
“Three, and thread the new coral beads upon them. And Prince Absalom spoke of?”
Narkis wove coral and hair together. “A sister who loves too free. A brother who desires too much.”
I did not think that Absalom cared one drop of sweat if Tamar lay with Amnon. As for desires—
“Did Prince Absalom say more?”
“No, for he spoke in heat and anger, and King David would not hear him. The king said that it was only right a sister love her brothers. And that all his children should love one another and bring him peace and joy.”
Narkis held my silver mirror up before my face. “Is the queen pleased with her servant’s handiwork?”
Triple braids looped back from my face, smooth and rich with carven coral. “Yes, the queen is pleased. What else?”
Narkis laid the mirror down. “Prince Amnon begged again that the king grant what he asked. And Prince Absalom swore his brother would never wed Princess Tamar. What earrings will the queen wear today?”
“Those the Lady Bathsheba gave me at harvest—the ones shaped like wheat-sheaves. And when Prince Absalom had spoken?”
“The king said that Prince Absalom was not yet king, and that only the king might say who a prince or princess should wed.” Narkis fastened the circles of golden wheat into my ears. “And then the king said that who was he to deny what Yahweh put into a man’s heart, or a maid’s?”
“And then King David told Prince Amnon
‘perhaps’.”
It was not a question; I heard it all as clear as if I had stood there between king and princes. Set Amnon in one balance, and Absalom in another; weigh them against each other. Now smile upon Amnon, now upon Absalom.
Perhaps,
and
if
and
maybe.
‘perhaps’.”
It was not a question; I heard it all as clear as if I had stood there between king and princes. Set Amnon in one balance, and Absalom in another; weigh them against each other. Now smile upon Amnon, now upon Absalom.
Perhaps,
and
if
and
maybe.
‘You are not yet king, Absalom
—’ And Absalom would think that he someday would be.
—’ And Absalom would think that he someday would be.
‘Who can deny love, Amnon—?’
And Amnon would think that Tamar would be his to cherish always.
And Amnon would think that Tamar would be his to cherish always.
And then it would be, later,
‘Did I say so?
’ and a smile.
‘Did I say so?
’ and a smile.
Oh, yes, I heard it all clear. And I heard another thing, too, an echo from long ago, when I was still a girl in my father’s house. An echo ringing now in David’s words like the tolling of a faraway bell.
‘Who is king here, you or I?’
‘Who is king here, you or I?’
Almost I forgot Narkis was there, until she murmured “The queen is wise. Yes, the king said
‘perhaps’.”
‘perhaps’.”
The seeds of disaster were sown; Absalom tended them until they were ripe for harvest.
For David’s kingdom was only two kings old. In most lands, the oldest son living would follow his father on the throne; here, no one yet knew how the power would pass from one hand to the next. Had David been the son of King Saul?
And so Absalom saw Amnon’s love as ambition. For Amnon was the eldest son; wed to Tamar, Amnon’s claim to David’s crown would be better than any other’s.
Better than Absalom’s.
It did not rest there, of course. Absalom would not let it, though David had warned him in plain words: peace and love in David’s house. Absalom did not heed.
“Everyone heard them, Michal—quarreling in the banquet hall, and before the king’s guests.” Bathsheba was pink with anger; she still cherished David’s image in her heart, and would not see him hurt.
“Yes, I know. Six others have been before you with the tale.”
An ugly tale. Absalom had challenged Amnon’s choice of seat, close by the king, demanding he relinquish his place to Absalom. King David had not chided Absalom, but only turned away, so that he need not see. It was Amnon who acted well; he kept his temper leashed, and gave soft words for harsh.
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