Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (27 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba
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Darkness clung to me like a heavy veil that day; all that morning it seemed my father’s wives had nothing better to do than debate where and when and to whom I should be married. Even Keshet and Nimrah caught that fever, arguing over whether my wedding dress should be of scarlet or of saffron,
and whether my bridal gems should be jacinths or rubies. At last I could not endure it and fled to the Little Palace, prepared to remain there into the night to see Queen Bilqis. She at least did not treat me as no more than a bride in waiting.
That was the day the Sheban queen opened a door to a freedom I had not dreamed existed—not for a woman. First she charmed me into better humor, and then she presented me to Moonwind.
I say it so because the queen’s hunting hound claimed better breeding and far better manners than most princes—and because he looked down his long nose at me as a king might at a grubby beggar.
A dog, yes; a dog that stood aloof, proud; an image glowing in alabaster and silk. Moonwind bore no resemblance to the pariah dogs that scavenged the streets, slinking creatures near kin to jackals.
“Dogs are unclean animals.” So I had always been warned, save by the Lady Melasadne, who came to Jerusalem from a faraway island and whose whole heart was given to the tiny white dogs she cosseted, caring more for the small creatures than for her rough sons. But Lady Melasadne’s dogs had as little in common with street-dogs as did this elegant creature, whose sloe eyes regarded me doubtfully—as if it were I who were unclean.
“Folly. Moonwind is as clean as you or I—and certainly cleaner than that seer who complains so loudly of him.” Bilqis stroked the hound’s silken ears. She looked at me, clearly expecting me to touch him as well. Cautious, I extended my hand, an action that would have had all Lady Melasadne’s doglets flinging themselves upon me in a wave of fur.
Even more wary than I of an alien touch, Moonwind recoiled slightly; the queen laughed. “You must win his regard, but the prize is worth the effort. Moonwind has a true heart and is a loyal beast—and useful, as well.”
“Useful?”
“Of course. Do you not hunt with hounds in this land?”
“Hunt? With dogs?” Laughing, I shook my head. “Do you think a girl is permitted to hunt? Perhaps they do so in your land, O Queen, but here in Israel men alone hunt. And they do so on foot, or sometimes from chariots, but I have never heard of hunting with dogs. How is it done?”
The queen smiled and stroked Moonwind’s slender head. “Come and see for yourself. What true objection can there be? You will be under my eye, and surely the Queen of Sheba is a fit guardian for Solomon’s daughter!”
“Hunting is for men.”
“Hunting is for hunters. Dress yourself in sturdy clothing, and come and learn.”
I hesitated, desire battling caution; dared I violate custom so greatly?
Then the queen gave aid to desire’s force. “Your father the king has sworn I may do as I wish, act as I would in my own kingdom. To hunt with the queen is a great honor. Surely you will not refuse?”
She raised her eyebrows; her face became a haughty mask, stiff with pride. Playing her game, I smoothed my own face to meek obedience and bowed before her. “If Sheba’s queen commands, how can Solomon’s daughter do less than obey?”
My false meekness fell away like a dropped veil as the queen laughed. “So dutiful! Go change your clothing—no, wait. You will own nothing suitable.” She turned to her waiting handmaiden. “Khurrami, gather clothing from my captain for the princess. I am sure Nikaulis’s garments can be persuaded to fit you, Baalit.”
 
 
Just as I had never seen such a dog as Moonwind, I had never seen such a horse as Shams. The horses my father dealt in were small fierce creatures, pullers of war chariots. They were never ridden, nor used for any purpose less noble than warfare, or the hunting of wild beasts.
Shams was different: tall, sleek-muscled, sweet-tempered. When he saw the queen, the stallion’s ears pricked forward, tips almost touching. His nostrils flared wide, and he uttered soft whuffling sounds.
The queen laughed and cupped her hands over his soft muzzle. “So you have missed me? Or is it what I bring that you yearn for?” The queen pulled a dried apricot from her pouch and offered it upon her palm; Shams took the fruit delicately and nudged her, plainly hoping for more.
“No, that is all.” The queen stroked his gleaming neck and said to me, “And that slothful creature is for you to begin upon. She is both gentle and patient; heed her and you will learn much. Will you not, Dawn?”
I drew my eyes from the glory of Shams and studied Dawn. Smaller than the queen’s stallion, plump and sturdy and gray as her name, Dawn regarded me with soft dark eyes. “I am to ride that one?”
“Of course; did you think to begin upon a horse like Shams? Your first
ride would be your last, child, and you lucky to escape shattered bones.”
Then she nodded and a groom came forward, knelt and cupped his hands. The queen set her foot in the man’s hands; sprang from them onto the horse’s back. Shams danced impatiently as she settled herself and gathered up the gilded leather reins. “Well, Princess?” she said, looking over at me, “do you wish to remain at home after all?”
Not only had I never flung my leg over a horse’s back in my life, I had only rarely even ridden in a chariot. But what the Queen of Sheba did, I swore I too would do. And so I drew a deep breath and walked up to Dawn; as the queen had done with Shams, I laid my hand upon the mare’s thick neck.
“I am to ride you,” I said, feeling no shame at talking to a dumb beast. “Be kind, and forgive my ignorance.” Swallowing hard, I nodded to the groom as the queen had done. And just as he had done for the queen, the groom locked his hands together for me to set my foot upon.
This is the last chance to turn back.
I ignored my fear and its coward’s warning and forced myself to forget I wore leather trousers that showed the shape of my legs to all the world. Trying to pretend I had some notion what I did, I grasped Dawn’s mane in both my hands and placed my left foot onto the groom’s waiting hands. A heartbeat later I sat upon the mare’s back, hardly daring to breathe.
“Are you well-settled?” the queen asked. “Then come, follow me—slowly and gently; you must learn balance and judgment to ride well.” Shams walked forward at the queen’s signal, a signal invisible to my uninitiated eyes.
Slowly, Dawn followed; I clutched the mare’s mane in both my hands and pressed my thighs against her broad sides so hard my muscles ached for three days after. But the cost in aches and effort was as nothing compared to the joy of sitting tall upon a strong beast and guiding it as one willed.
And as the queen instructed me in how to sit properly, to relax into the trot and urge the placid Dawn past that rough gait into the smooth delight of the canter, pleasure spread through my body, warm and sweet as summer honey.
Upon a horse, I could see far as a falcon; upon a horse, I could challenge the wind. Upon a horse, a girl became a man’s equal.
Such pleasure, potent as any wine—no, not mere pleasure. As I reined
Dawn to a halt at the crest of the hill leading away from Jerusalem, I named the emotion that so elated me.
Triumph.
 
 
Forgiveness for transgression is easier to obtain than permission. I asked no one whether I might venture forth with the Sheban queen. Nor did I tell anyone where I was bound. The king’s palace sprawled, a maze of courtyards and corridors, over more land than did the Great Temple. Even if I were sought, I could easily explain away my absence.
But I returned from my first ride out with the Sheban queen to find Keshet and Nimrah frantic and furious with worry; I had been asked for by my brother Caleb, who wished me to play with him—
“And you know what Prince Caleb is like when thwarted,” Keshet said. “He howled like a paid mourner when you were not here—”
“And like an entire pack of mad jackals when we could not find you.” Nimrah regarded me steadily with her pale cool eyes. “Of course you are our mistress, and our lives are yours—but we cannot serve you with our eyes bandaged.”
“Yes—suppose it had been the king who desired your presence, rather than Prince Caleb!” Unlike Nimrah, Keshet burned hot when angered. “And you nowhere to be found, and we able to say only that we knew not where you might be. You leave us as ignorant as—as—”
“As Prince Rehoboam?” I tried to jest her into better humor, with no success.
Keshet stamped her foot. “Even Prince Rehoboam might have better sense! Where were you, Baalit?”
“And with whom?” Nimrah’s voice cut sharp with a disdain I could not understand.
But their mistress or no, I knew Nimrah and Keshet had good reason to be angry. My follies rebounded on their heads. Still, I was a princess and they were not; I lifted my chin and said, “If you must know, I was with the Queen of Sheba. She showed me how to ride a horse, as she does.”
“The Sheban queen. Oh, I see.” Relief softened Nimrah; I had not seen until she slackened her hold on her temper how truly fearful she had been. I put my arm about her waist and said, “Why? Who did you think I was with?”
Nimrah turned her head to look straight into my eyes. “A man, perhaps,” she said, and I gaped at her. “What man?” I asked blankly. After a moment, she smiled. “Any man. But I see I was wrong.”
“Of course you were wrong; she does not yet think of such things, even when she ought,” Keshet snapped in a tone that made me feel myself still in swaddling bands. Then, lest I think she had forgotten my transgressions, Keshet turned on me. “Riding upon a horse? Are you mad? Far better if you had been with a man. He could marry you, but what can a horse do, save toss you off and trample you? How came your father to permit such nonsense? I suppose you teased at him until he gave in.”
Within the circle of my arm, I felt Nimrah’s silent sigh and knew she already guessed the truth. So before either girl could berate me further, I said, “I did not tease him. I—I did not ask him.”
“Oh, Baalit,
why not?
” Keshet half-wailed.
“I was with the Queen of Sheba,” I offered, “and some of her servants rode out with us as well.”
“Suppose you had broken your neck?” demanded Keshet, unmollified.
“I didn’t. And it is my neck, not yours!”
“Yes, it is—and if you break that neck, you will be dead, but we will still be alive to bear the king’s anger.” Keshet glared at me, her eyes as hot as mine.
Nimrah slipped from my embrace and set a pale hand upon Keshet’s arm. “Peace, Keshet; Baalit has returned safely to us.” Nimrah slanted her glance towards me. “And the two of us can ensure she rides no more without the king’s consent.”
“And yours too, I suppose!”
Someday,
I swore to myself,
someday I shall be served by men and women who have not known me since I lay
wailing
in my cradle! Truly you would think I could not walk safely across the garden without their guidance!
“Why, Princess, we are but your handmaidens. Who are we to say to our mistress yea or nay?” Nimrah’s voice was smooth as cream cooled in the well; Keshet giggled. Then, relenting, Nimrah smiled, and said, “But if your father the king grants you leave to ride with the Sheban queen—why, then what happens is no fault of ours.”
 
 
And so, to placate my handmaidens, I had to beg my father’s consent that I might learn to ride a horse. Such permission proved harder to gain than I
had foreseen. Like Keshet, my father seemed to understand only that those who rode upon horses often fell from them onto the hard ground. Since he himself shocked the traditional by riding horses when he chose, I thought him unreasonable. More, he proved stubborn in the face of my entreaties.
“I will be careful,” I swore as he continued to shake his head. “Please, Father, grant me leave to do this.”
He sighed heavily. “My dear child, it does not please me to deny you, but such an endeavor is far too dangerous for you. Horses are not suited to women’s guidance; they are too powerful and unpredictable. You are not strong enough to control a chariot team. How could you control a horse once upon its back?”
Much as I longed to beg, I knew better than to continue to plead in that fashion. Such a tactic would only grieve my father, who truly hated to deny me anything, while failing to convince him to grant my request. Instead, I met his objections with the only arguments he respected: logic and reason.
“I know I cannot control a harnessed pair, my father, but that, as you say, requires great strength. Upon a horse’s back, it is skill that counts, and that I can acquire.” Then I offered my strongest counter to his fear. “Horses cannot be so very dangerous, Father; do not the Shebans ride them? Have we not seen the Sheban queen herself upon a horse?” And then, the final shot: “You ride horses yourself, and care nothing for what people say of its perils.”
I knew he could not deny that; my father never refused to acknowledge truth.

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