by Angela Hunt
Each pointed word felt like a stab in the heart. I released a strangled cry as my knees gave way. I sank to the ground, buried my face in my hands, and wailed for my murdered husband and my nonexistent future. As a pregnant woman with no husband in sight, I had no hope of survival. People would whisper as soon as my belly began to show. They would count months on their fingers, and I would be cast out for being an adulteress or a harlot. I had shamed my sister, my dead husband, and my esteemed grandfather.
Worst of all, I was to blame. If Uriah had not married a tob woman, he might have lived a long and happy life.
“Bathsheba.” Grandfather’s voice held a note of impatience. He bent and gently helped me to my feet. “Shh, do not carry on so. You are not to blame for any of this.”
I tried to control myself, but my eyes overflowed despite my efforts. “Uriah did not deserve to die.”
“You are right to weep and mourn him, for he was a good man, even a better one than the shepherd who sits on the throne. Weep for your husband, observe the full mourning period, but do not say anything to anyone about the child.”
With much effort I looked up at Grandfather’s face. His stern expression was enough to silence my sobs, but what could he do to preserve my reputation?
“The king has committed a great evil, but I’m sure he does not wish to harm you,” Grandfather said. “If he cared nothing about you, he would not have bothered to have Uriah killed. Since David is responsible for your condition, I will make certain he protects you. And if it takes the rest of my life, I will make him pay for what he has done to this family.”
I stared in confusion as Grandfather’s words piled atop each other. I had no idea what he meant or what he would do, yet I understood his anger. In that moment I would have shared it had my heart not been so heavy with grief.
As always, I had no control over the powerful current that was dragging me away from the life I loved. I had to trust my grandfather or leave Jerusalem.
But for the next seven days, I had to mourn the husband I had unwillingly betrayed.
We grieved for Uriah throughout the next week. Grandfather hired professional mourners who sat cross-legged in the courtyard and filled the air with keening. We had no funeral, for my husband had been buried in the blood-soaked earth outside Rabbah. Our parting five months ago had been our last kiss, our last embrace, our last exchange of words. Uriah walked out of my life to serve our king, and our king had deliberately taken his life.
I moved like a woman in a trance, nodding to those who came to comfort me, weeping with those who wept, thanking those who brought food or gifts to honor my husband’s memory. Elisheba and Amaris were nearly as inconsolable as I, but they were better able to converse with guests and smile at happy memories.
My lips had turned traitorous; I could not smile. Knowledge of the king’s treachery and his child within my belly overshadowed every thought, and when I wasn’t grieving for Uriah I trembled in fear of my own future. Grandfather said the king would take care of me, but what if the sight of my face reminded him of the horrible evil he’d committed? What if I were nothing more than an entertainment that ceased to amuse once it had been explored and vanquished?
In our crowded community, where homes adjoined their neighbors and words carried easily from one household to another, my pregnancy would not remain a secret for long. In another month, maybe two, my belly would begin to grow and everyone would know. The women first, followed by their men. The priests . . . and Nathan the prophet. Since Adonai often revealed things to him, perhaps he knew already.
I bowed my head as fresh tears began to flow. I did not know the prophet well enough to speak to him, but he had been a fixture in my youth, the boy who visited the Tabernacle with Samuel and often stopped to share a meal with my father and grandfather. As a child, I had admired Nathan’s open countenance and dedication to his teacher, and even as a woman I would rather walk across burning sand than do anything that might cause him to think less of me. I had always wanted him to like me, but he would be shocked and disappointed if he learned I was pregnant by a man who was not my husband.
The day after Elisheba and I put away our sackcloth and swept the courtyard, a pair of messengers arrived from the palace. “King David would have you be his wife,” the tallest messenger announced as he eyed me from head to toe. “And our lord the king will take care of your household from this day forward.”
I turned my back to them, surprised and more uncertain than ever. “But I don’t want to be his wife,” I whispered in Elisheba’s ear. “I hate him.”
“You must go.” Elisheba slipped her arm about my waist, then gave me a squeeze. “Don’t hesitate, and don’t worry. Surely the king knows what is best.”
“But how am I to do this?” I clenched my hands in frustration. “He might command my body, but he will never command my heart.”
“Shh.” Elisheba placed her fingers over my lips. “Be careful, child. Speak little. Look much. And plead your case before Adonai, who pays special attention to the prayers of widows and children.”
For the first time in my life, I doubted Elisheba’s wisdom, but what choice did I have? I turned and saw Amaris staring at me, her wide eyes about to overflow. I walked over to her, knelt to wrap her in my arms, and whispered a gentle farewell. “I’ll still see you,” I promised. “You’ll always be my little sister.”
I felt the sting of tears behind the smile I gave her. I stood, straightened my shoulders, and stepped forward as Elisheba looked on with approval. Though Amaris wept with confusion, Elisheba wore relief like a garment.
I wish I could say I found the courage to walk away from the home my beloved husband had built for me, but in truth, my walk to the palace was precipitated more by resignation than bravery. A walk to David’s house, difficult as it was, was infinitely preferable to a suicidal trek into the desert.
So between two unfamiliar messengers I climbed the path to the palace, preparing to live with a man I did not know and most assuredly did not love.
After entering the palace gate, my escorts led me through the large courtyard, where more than a few scorching glares followed us. Those who knew me must have wondered what business Uriah’s widow had with the king’s household. Those who did not know me must have considered me another concubine sought for the king’s pleasure. Such thoughts, I have since learned, are routinely ascribed to tob women.
The escorts did not linger in the open space but led me to another enclosure, a series of rooms belonging to the king’s wives and concubines. These royal rooms were less lavish and more crowded than I had expected, for David had many wives and even more concubines in his harem. Many children too, I noticed, as I glanced at the little ones scurrying to their mothers as we approached.
I steeled myself not to flinch beneath the gazes of the women, who seemed intent on evaluating my face, form, and even the cut of my tunic. Though I had little experience with female competition and only a little knowledge of royal protocol, intuitively I knew I was being judged according to some sort of comparative scale. I did not speak to anyone but followed my escorts to a small room that had been furnished with a narrow bed, a wooden table, a trunk, a chair, a basin and a pitcher of water.
A room with everything I needed, but as impersonal as a harlot’s roadside hut.
After seeing me safely inside, one of the escorts inclined his head and pressed his hand to his chest. “Be well, my lady. A servant will bring you dinner.”
“Wait.” I took a step toward him, not sure what was expected of me. “Is there some sort of . . . do I need to do something?”
The man’s brow lifted. “Everything has already been done. The king has proclaimed that you are his wife, so you will be granted the respect due a royal wife. Your family is now his responsibility, so he will care for those who remain in your household. This is your room; the harem is your domain. You may wander freely in it and you may go to the king when summoned. Otherwise, you are not to leave the palace without
an escort, for now you belong to the king.”
Overcome by the swift efficiency of the royal household, I sank onto the bed and stared at the stone floor as my escorts closed the door and departed. In the space of an hour, the king had made me his wife, removed me from my family, and stolen my personal freedom. The procedure was altogether clean, quick, and loveless.
How different my marriage to Uriah had been! We had feasted with family and friends, we had lain together, we had laughed and loved and received congratulations and good wishes from everyone who knew us.
I might have married a king, but instead of congratulations from friends, I received cold looks from the king’s other wives. Instead of feasting, I would dine in solitude. And instead of lying next to a loving husband on a straw-stuffed mattress, I would lie in this cold and lonely bed.
Would I always sleep alone? I had no idea if the king had any intention of sleeping with me again. This effort might only be the result of a guilty conscience.
I ate lightly of the meal a servant delivered and then paced in my room with nothing to do. Then, as the sun lowered in the west, someone knocked on my door. I opened it to find a guard waiting. The king, he announced, had sent for me.
I swallowed hard. Should I go to him as I was or should I ask for a change of clothes? I didn’t know if he wanted to speak to me or sleep with me, and the thought of either caused a riot of panic in my chest.
Since I had no other clothing and no servant to help with my appearance, I smoothed my hair, girded up my courage, and followed the guard out of the harem, down a corridor, and into another chamber much larger than the small space reserved for a royal wife. There the king reclined on a couch, eating his dinner. At my approach he wiped his fingers, pushed his tray aside, and stood. He gave me an uncertain, crooked smile as he waved the guard away.
I tilted my head, studying the man who had haunted my sleep for the past several weeks. He seemed smaller than I remembered, ruddier, and less physically powerful. Uriah had definitely been the more attractive man.
“I have sent for you, Bathsheba,” the king said without preamble or apology, “to tell you how deeply I regret what has happened between us thus far. Yet I will take care of you, so you need not fear for your safety.” His gaze sharpened and ran over my form, then for the first time it met mine. “Are you still with child?”
At first I could not speak over the boulder in my throat, but I pushed the words out. “Do you think I would have come if I were not?”
His face twisted, then he turned so I could not see his eyes. “I deserved that.” He moved to a standing tray and plucked a few grapes from a stalk. “In that case—” he tossed a grape into his mouth—“because Uriah did not avail himself of my kindness and go home as I commanded, the world must believe the child you carry is mine.”
“Which it is.” Forced through a tight throat, my words sounded hoarse.
“Yet for the child’s sake, you must remain with me tonight,” the king continued, turning to face me again. His mouth curved with the faint beginning of a smile. “I will sleep with you, the child will be known as a prince of Israel, and I will not disturb you again.”
The shivering at my core erupted into violent trembling. I closed my eyes, unable to bear the thought of touching the man who had brought me such pain and heartache and shame. But I was his wife, his property to use or ignore as he chose.
Braced for his caress, I waited, but nothing happened. Still terrified, I opened my eyes and found him standing directly in front of me, his smile twisted and his forehead creased with apparent concern.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, not knowing I’d heard him say those very words in my nightmares.
“If it please my lord the king,” I managed to whisper, “you do not have to touch me in order to establish that you are the child’s father. As long as we pass the night together, every wagging tongue will be stilled. No one would dare doubt the child’s paternity.”
His eyes narrowed as though he were weighing the motivation behind my suggestion. “I have done you a greater injustice than I realized,” he said, his tone apologetic, “and I have gravely wounded you, though that was not my intention. Please, lady, sleep in my bed, and I will pass the night on the floor. And in the morning, as you have said, no one will have reason to doubt that you carry a royal child.”
“I will lie on the floor.” I took a half step back. “The king should not be deprived of his bed.”
He exhaled softly and chuckled. “I have spent many a night on ground harder than this. Take the bed, daughter of Eliam, and sleep in peace. You may find this hard to believe, but I am not a complete monster. I am—” he shrugged, and when his eyes met mine again, they appeared to shine with contrition—“only a man.”
A common shepherd, my grandfather would have said. As common a man as could be found in Israel.
What could I do but take the king at his word? I moved to the far side of his bed and slipped out of my sandals, then crawled beneath the blanket in an effort to disappear. Experience had taught me that David took what he coveted, and I did not want him to wake in the night and covet me yet again.
I huddled beneath the stifling blanket for what felt like an eternity and listened to him move about the room, shuffling parchments and squeaking the chair. Finally I heard him blow out the oil lamp. When I gratefully pushed the blanket away from my perspiring face, I drank in gulps of fresh air and saw nothing but shifting shadows.
I could not see David where he lay, but after a while I heard soft snoring from the far side of the room. I remained awake, anxious and alert, until the cock crowed and servants began to shuffle in the hallway.
Careful not to wake the sleeping king, I slipped out of his bed and hurried back to the safety of the harem and my small space within it.
And so ended my second wedding night.
Chapter Twenty
Bathsheba
MONTHS PASSED. Except for brief visits from Elisheba and Amaris, I spent my days in solitude and seemed to be David’s wife in name only. The king did not call for me during those long weeks, and most of the other wives avoided me as much as possible. When I chanced upon them in the palace garden, the wives with children tended to speak to the air above my head, especially Maacah, the princess of Geshur, who had given David two children, beautiful Tamar and handsome Absalom.
The other wives ignored the growing bulge beneath my tunic. I would have ignored it myself if I’d had a choice. If not for the bulge, Uriah would be alive and I would be living contentedly with Elisheba and Amaris in my little house. If not for the ill-begotten bulge, I would be free to come and go as I pleased. If not for the bulge, I would be able to sleep without nightmares.
One night I dreamt that a lion chased me through the streets and finally pinned me to the earth. I felt his massive weight on my arms as a growl rattled in his throat and his hulking body loomed over me. He lowered his head and sniffed at my neck while I turned my face away and clamped my teeth together, trying not to scream. He roared, and I braced myself for death—and then I woke up.
I lay motionless, my heart pounding, my skin slick with perspiration. For a long moment my dream world felt more real than the bed beneath me. Then my room slowly made its way back into my consciousness. I pulled the blanket to my chin and searched the darkness, lit only by a sliver of light at the bottom of my door. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I spied my table, my cloak, my shoes on the floor. In another apartment a child cried, sandal-clad feet whispered in the hallway, and in the distance, guards laughed at a ribald joke.
In the shadowy world-between-worlds, I pressed my hand to the bulge at my belly and felt a responding kick. I stiffened, somehow certain that the child wanted his first contact with me to be as violent as the act that had conceived him. I removed my hand and turned my head, not willing to encourage any further communication between us.
In that moment I wanted to be with Uriah, curled up next to him in a grave somewhere outside Rabbah
.
None of the king’s women seemed willing to befriend me, nor the king himself. So why shouldn’t I resign myself to a life without joy, purpose, or meaning?
In the quiet of my chamber I yearned for the companionable conversations I used to enjoy with Elisheba and Amaris. We had spent so many years sharing close quarters that at times I found myself snatching a breath to speak to Elisheba, then realizing she was no longer with me. I would have given anything to keep Amaris by my side, even though she was too young to comprehend many of the thoughts that troubled my heart.
I could not understand why the king’s other wives ignored me. I had done nothing to steal his affection, and he spent very little time in my company. One afternoon, as a servant swept my room, I happened to remark that the other wives did not consider me a friend. The servant, a stout Jebusite woman, chuckled under her breath.
“Did I say something funny?” I smiled so she would not think I was angry. “Please, if you know why the other women avoid me, please tell me.”
She narrowed her eyes and studied me, then gave me a small grin. “They are jealous because of the story whispered throughout the palace, my lady. Throughout Jerusalem, in fact.”
A thrill of panic shot through me. What story was being whispered? The story of how I came to be the king’s wife, or the story of how David murdered my husband?
I swallowed to bring my heart down from my throat. “And what story would that be?”
“The prophecy, my lady.” She leaned closer. “They say that when you were born, one of Israel’s greatest prophets took a look at you and said you would be one of the most desirable women in the land. And that you would marry a king and have a son who would be the greatest ruler in the world.”
The rumor wasn’t exactly accurate, but at least it wasn’t one of the stories I’d feared. “That’s why they avoid me?”