by Lynn Austin
She moved into his arms, and as he felt the warmth of her embrace, smelled the sweetness of her scent, his longing for Hephzibah was almost more than he could bear. He took Abigail’s face in his hands and kissed her hair, her forehead, her lips. But God forgive him—in his heart he was kissing Hephzibah. When Hezekiah realized what he was doing, he stopped and released Abigail from his arms.
“No,” he said. “It does matter, Abigail. I can’t do this to you. I’m sorry.”
She stared up at him in fear and confusion. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No,” he said sadly, “no, you haven’t done anything wrong.” Suddenly Hezekiah’s grief gripped him so powerfully that he had to turn away to hide the tears stinging his eyes. “You are a beautiful, desirable woman, and I’d like nothing more right now than to have you stay with me tonight. But it wouldn’t be fair to you. You could give me pleasure, help me forget my grief for a while, even give me a son to take my place someday. But I have nothing to give you in return.”
“Yes, the honor of being your wife … of living here …”
“Honor and prestige and wealth and privilege aren’t important in the end. They don’t last.” He turned to her again. “Relationships, love—nothing can replace them, don’t you see? I have the honor and respect of all my countrymen, even of other nations, but it doesn’t mean a thing.”
She stared at him in silence as tears fell down her lovely cheeks. How could he make her understand?
“Abigail, did you have another suitor? Someone else who loved you and wanted to marry you?”
“Yes … but to be married to the king, to give birth to your heir, is—”
“Don’t trade a chance at happiness for a title or prestige. It’s not a fair exchange. And right now, a title is all I could give you. Maybe in time I’ll be ready to love again. Maybe someday I could give you something in return… .”
“But I could—”
“Don’t you understand, Abigail? When I kissed you a moment ago … I was kissing someone else.”
He saw by her expression that she finally understood. And in spite of his efforts not to, he knew he had hurt her deeply.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “You’re hurt because you think I’m rejecting you. But someday, when you find a husband who loves you as much as you deserve to be loved, you’ll understand why I sent you away. I pray that you’ll be grateful.”
She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. The pain in them was gone, replaced by pity. “But you deserve to be loved, too, Your Majesty.”
She was a very beautiful woman, and Hezekiah ached inside with the need to be loved, the need not to be alone anymore. He quickly rang for his valet before he changed his mind, before his own selfish needs caused him to ruin Abigail’s life.
“Take her home,” he told his servant; then he turned his back so he wouldn’t have to watch her go.
He was alone again, and his sorrow and grief seemed greater than before. He needed Hephzibah to rub the tension from his aching shoulders and neck, to fill the empty place in his heart. But she was gone forever. He stood before his window staring at the outline of the Temple on the hill.
He had served God faithfully for more than a dozen years, upholding the Law, governing his nation by it. And God had fulfilled His end of the covenant in return, blessing his country, granting him honor in the sight of other nations. God had given him every prom- ised blessing except one: an heir. But as Hephzibah had so painfully pointed out, God had made that promise to David, not to him. And God would keep it, too—through Hezekiah’s brothers and their sons.
How easily God’s Word could be misread and misinterpreted, just as he had misread God’s command to marry one wife. Do not return to Egypt … Maybe he had misread that law, too. Maybe it had nothing to do with joining an alliance.
The door opened, and his valet returned, interrupting his thoughts. “Did you send the young woman home?” Hezekiah asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like anything else?”
It seemed to Hezekiah that his valet was looking at him strangely, and he wanted to explain to him why he had sent Abigail away. He wanted to tell him that just because he was the king and could have anything or anyone he wanted, it didn’t give him a license to use people for his own selfish needs. But the valet wasn’t waiting for an explanation. Hezekiah hadn’t answered his question.
“Yes, I’d like one more thing. Ask Shebna to come here.”
Hezekiah gazed up at the stars while he waited, watching the thin, gauzy clouds that raced across the sky like a bridal veil. He felt tired, but it wasn’t the type of fatigue that sleep would cure. When he heard his door open, he turned around.
“Two things, Shebna. First, I’ve decided to sign a treaty of alliance with Egypt. You will go as my envoy, but you will make no concessions to them. I will sign as Pharaoh’s equal or not at all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I can be ready to leave right away.” He broke into a broad grin, showing his straight, even teeth.
For some peculiar reason, Hezekiah suddenly recalled the first time he’d ever met Shebna. Hezekiah had been a child, and something in Shebna’s smile had seemed false to him. “Your eyes aren’t happy,” Hezekiah had told him. He searched Shebna’s eyes now and saw that they still didn’t seem happy, in spite of the fact that he was the second most powerful man in the nation, that he was getting his wish for a treaty, that his advice had been heeded instead of Eliakim’s. Hezekiah wondered why not.
“And second,” he continued. “Don’t ever send a woman to my chambers without consulting me again.”
Shebna’s grin vanished. “She did not please you, Your Majesty?”
“I’m sure she would have pleased me a great deal if I’d let her stay, but that’s not the point.” He saw Shebna’s confusion and searched for a way to explain it to him. “Shebna, you’ve had the same concubine for many years now. Does she bring you pleasure?”
“Yes, and she has also given me four sons.”
“Then why haven’t you married her?”
“What for? I am content without marriage.”
“Indeed—what for?” he said softly. “‘The Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.’ ” And the Torah also says, ‘A man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh.’
There’s so much more to marriage than pleasure or sons, Shebna. It’s a sacred covenant, a mutual covenant, for the benefit of both partners. It’s like—”
The blank look of incomprehension on Shebna’s face stopped Hezekiah. A wall of unbelief separated him from Shebna, and for the first time Hezekiah realized how different they were, how far apart they’d grown over the years. Hezekiah’s faith led him to live for God, not for himself; Shebna had no one to please but himself.
“Never mind,” Hezekiah said. He sank down wearily on his couch, shaking his head. “That’s all, Shebna. You may go.”
Shebna didn’t move. “I am sorry if I have offended you, Your Majesty. I was only trying to be a friend to you. I thought the girl might help lift the burden of sadness you have carried for so long.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But maybe I’m just not ready to let go of it yet.”
And for the first time Hezekiah admitted to himself that in spite of all that Hephzibah had done to him, he still loved her. Maybe he always would. Their hearts had been joined together in a miraculous, inexplicable way, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he willed it, he would probably never be able to completely forget her, never stop loving her. And never was a very long time.
16
THE HOT SUN GLARED off the paving stones as Hezekiah stood on the palace steps, watching his servants load the caravan with gifts for Pharaoh Shabako. Within minutes, sweat poured down his face and neck, gluing his tunic to his back. He wiped his brow, pushing his damp hair off his forehead.
Eliakim stood beside him, hi
s opposition to the Egyptian treaty clear from his grave silence. In the courtyard below, Shebna strutted before the growing crowd, issuing last-minute orders to the servants. When General Jonadab finished inspecting the Judean soldiers who would accompany the delegation, he climbed the stairs to where Hezekiah and Eliakim stood. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve decided to purchase Egyptian chariots and horses, Your Majesty. They will be a muchneeded addition to our arsenal.”
Hezekiah nodded vaguely. He didn’t want to think about the Egyptian horses. He wanted to get this over with.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come along, Eliakim?” Jonadab asked with a wry smile. “I’ll let you ride your favorite horse. It’ll be like old times, riding together.”
“No thanks, General.” Eliakim’s usual boyish grin had disappeared. Jonadab looked perplexed.
“I thought this was a happy occasion, Your Majesty. Why all the long faces?”
Yes, why the gnawing uneasiness that churned in Hezekiah’s stomach? He had made a reasonable decision about this alliance based on facts and sound advice. But for some reason he couldn’t escape the feeling that he had made a grave mistake.
“We’ll celebrate when you return and the treaty is signed,” he told Jonadab.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Hezekiah watched in silence as Shebna finished issuing orders and bounded up the steps. “Everything is ready, Your Majesty. We are ready to leave whenever—oh no! What does he want?”
Hezekiah followed Shebna’s gaze and saw Isaiah pushing his way through the crowd, elbowing people aside. The prophet made no effort to mask his disapproval as he stopped at the bottom of the steps and gazed up at Hezekiah.
“‘Woe to the obstinate children,’ declares the Lord, ‘to those who carry out plans that are not mine, forming an alliance, but not by my Spirit, heaping sin upon sin …”’
“What is he doing?” Hezekiah asked through clenched teeth.
“He’s condemning me here? In front of all these people?” The crowd had fallen silent, listening with rapt attention as Isaiah’s voice carried across the courtyard and echoed off the palace walls.
“‘Who go down to Egypt without consulting me; who look to Pharaoh’s protection for help, to Egypt’s shade for refuge.’ ” Hezekiah hurried down the stairs, the stiffness in his scarred leg making his descent awkward. But he had no time to disguise his limp. He had to stop Isaiah from denouncing his policies in front of all these people.
“Don’t do this to me,” Hezekiah pleaded in a low voice. “Please, Rabbi. Not in public like this. You don’t understand. You don’t have all the facts—”
“‘But Pharaoh’s protection will be to your shame,’ ” Isaiah continued, “‘Egypt’s shade will bring you disgrace.’ ” It seemed like a bad dream to Hezekiah—the prophet shouting to a rebellious king before an astounded crowd, rebuking him in the name of the Lord. He remembered standing beside his father near the aqueduct on the road to the Washerman’s Field the day the prophet had confronted Ahaz. He remembered Isaiah’s warnings in the Valley of Hinnom and how the prophet had pleaded with Ahaz and the rebellious people to stop their sin of idolatry. Now Hezekiah stood in his father’s place. Now the prophet directed his angry words and accusations of sin and rebellion at him. Helpless frustration made Hezekiah want to lash out at Isaiah, just as his father had lashed out, but he choked back his anger.
“Not out here, Rabbi, please,” Hezekiah begged. “Can’t we go inside and talk about this?” Isaiah’s voice rose even louder in volume.
“These are a rebellious people, deceitful children, children unwilling to listen to the Lord’s instruction. They say to the seers, ‘See no more visions!’ and to the prophets, ‘Give us no more visions of what is right! Tell us pleasant things, prophesy illusions. Leave this way, get off this path, and stop confronting us with the Holy One of Israel!’ ” “Guards!” Shebna shouted as he bounded down the stairs. “I’ve had enough of this man!”
“No, Shebna,” Hezekiah said wearily. “Let him have his say. Trying to silence him will only make things worse.” He turned his back on Isaiah and on the caravan to Egypt and slowly limped up the palace stairs, mortified to be receiving the same condemnation as his father. Isaiah continued to shout behind him.
“‘Because you have rejected this message, relied on oppression and depended on deceit, this sin will become for you like a high wall, cracked and bulging, that collapses suddenly, in an instant. It will break in pieces like pottery, shattered so mercilessly that among its pieces not a fragment will be found for taking coals from a hearth or scooping water out of a cistern.’ ”
When Hezekiah reached the top step, Eliakim stopped him.
“Shall I call off the caravan, Your Majesty?”
Hezekiah turned around and faced the crowd again. The soldiers, servants, and townspeople watched him curiously. Everyone waited for his response. Hezekiah shook his head.
“No, Eliakim—we can’t call it off. We can’t be the only nation that doesn’t join the coalition, or they’ll turn against us. We need this treaty. Our national security depends on it.”
He had spoken too quietly for Isaiah to hear his words, but the prophet began shouting again as if he had. “ ‘In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it. You said, “No, we will flee on horses.” Therefore you will flee! You said, “We will ride off on swift horses.” Therefore your pursuers will be swift! A thousand will flee at the threat of one; at the threat of five you will all flee away, till you are left like a flagstaff on a mountaintop, like a banner on a hill.’ ” Hezekiah’s breath quickened as he fought back the angry words he wanted to hurl at Isaiah. They felt like gravel in his throat. He longed to curse the prophet for confronting him publicly like this, for criticizing his decisions without listening to the facts, for making him feel like a wicked, rebellious king like his father. He wasn’t like his father. He had followed God’s Law to the letter. He had been faithful to His covenant. Isaiah was wrong. But Isaiah was never wrong.
“Doesn’t Yahweh have a good word for me, Rabbi? After all that I’ve done for Him? After all these years?” He heard the pleading note in his own voice, and he felt like Esau begging for his father’s blessing after foolishly squandering his birthright.
Isaiah gazed at him sadly for a moment before answering. “Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion, for the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him!”
Hezekiah felt the tension in the gawking crowd. The soldiers, nobles, and officials waited anxiously to see who would win this confrontation. But Hezekiah knew he couldn’t back down. In spite of Isaiah’s words, he remained convinced that joining the coalition of nations was Judah’s only hope against an impossibly superior foe.
“You don’t understand, Rabbi,” he said at last. “I am trusting the Lord. He’s the only God I’ll ever worship. But for my nation’s sake, I have to join with my neighbors against the Assyrians. I can’t ignore what’s going on in the world around me. I’m sorry you don’t see it that way. And I’m sorry you’ve decided to confront me in public instead of man to man.”
Then, because he didn’t want to hear any more of the prophet’s words, Hezekiah signaled for the caravan to leave and disappeared into his palace.
“Someone to see you, my lady.”
Hephzibah turned and was stunned to find Jerusha standing in her doorway. She had come back! In spite of all Hephzibah’s efforts to drive her away, Jerusha had come back. Her persistence touched Hephzibah’s heart—and she didn’t want to be touched.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came back to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be your friend.”
“I told you I don’t need your friendship. Or your pity. Why can’t you leave me alone?” As she glared at Jerusha, Hephzibah noticed something she had missed the la
st time—an unmistakable bulge in the front of Jerusha’s robe. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
“Yes … yes, I am.”
“How can you come here and parade in front of me like that, knowing that I’m barren? Do you enjoy reminding me of my failure?
Go away!”
But Jerusha shook her head. “No, Hephzibah—I’m not leaving. I know you’re trying to punish yourself by pushing everyone away, but—”
“I don’t have to push anyone! They’ve all disowned me! My servants, my family, even my father and mother. I’ve disgraced them. They consider me dead. And I wish you would consider me dead, too.”
“Have you asked God to forgive you?”
“I don’t believe in forgiveness,” she spat. “There’s no such thing.”
“I was angry at God, too, Hephzibah. I blasphemed Him and refused to pray or to believe in Him. But when I asked for forgiveness—”
“You lived happily ever after. Good for you. But that’s not going to happen to me. Hezekiah hates me. He isn’t going to forgive me, so how can his God forgive me? I won’t even ask.”
“That’s not how it works, Hephzibah.”
“Yes, it is. Hezekiah obeys all of God’s laws, I don’t. So God listens to him, not to me. Neither one of them will ever forgive me.” Hephzibah thought she had long exhausted her tears, but when she remembered the look in Hezekiah’s eyes the night he discovered her betrayal, she covered her face and wept. She wished she could erase the memory of the anguish she had seen in his eyes, his terrible pain as he’d read the words of her vow. She longed to forget, but she couldn’t; from the moment she had first met Hezekiah she had loved his beautiful dark eyes most of all.
She heard Jerusha moving around the room, opening her curtains and shutters; then she felt the breeze move across her skin like a caress when Jerusha opened the door to the outside. Hephzibah looked up. A sparrow landed on the threshold, cocking its head as if asking a question, then flew away.
“Come out into the courtyard with me,” Jerusha said, extending her hand. “Sit in the sunshine.”