Bathsheba, Reluctant Beauty

by Angela Hunt

  Servants who visited my chamber reported that David, the king of all Israel, lay on the floor of his room, already mourning the death of our son. His counselors pleaded with him to rise and eat, but he refused. The business of the kingdom stalled while the king remained in his chamber, and his advisors worried that he would be too grief-stricken to govern if the child perished.

  By the seventh day, our precious son had little life left in him. I held him in my arms and gently ran the back of my finger over his cheek until his breathing slowed and stopped. When I was certain he would never breathe again, I sent my servant to tell the king.

  With my sad vigil at an end, Michal later told me, the royal advisors huddled outside the king’s chamber, afraid to give him the terrible news. “He wouldn’t listen to reason while the child was ill,” they murmured, “so what drastic thing will he do when we tell him the child is dead?”

  But David heard them whispering. He opened his door and regarded them with a weary look. “Is the child dead?”

  As one, they nodded.

  David closed his door, washed himself, put on lotions, and changed out of his rumpled clothing. Leaving his stunned officials in a bewildered huddle, he left his chamber and walked to the Tabernacle. After offering a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, he returned to the palace and asked for his dinner.

  “His advisors and servants were amazed,” Michal said. “They couldn’t understand why David was inconsolable while the baby was sick, and calm after he died. David told them that he’d wept and fasted because he hoped Adonai would be gracious and let his son live. But once a child has died, what more is to be done? David told them, ‘I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.’”

  I must have looked shocked, for Michal squeezed my hand. “David is the most pragmatic of men. Prone to intense mood swings, yes, yet immensely practical. He prays, and then he accepts Adonai’s will, whatever that may be.”

  I carried Michal’s story back to my empty chamber and sat on the bed, considering all that had happened in the last week. My son—the child I initially dreaded, a baby who should never have been conceived—had been born, and my hopeful heart rejoiced to hold him in my arms. I saw the same light of joy in David’s eyes, and the cold place within me warmed to know that despite everything, the king wanted our child.

  If the story Michal told could be trusted, David had honestly grieved for his sin and prayed for our son. Despite the brazen callousness he displayed nine months prior, the king still possessed a tender heart, one that remained sensitive to Adonai’s discipline. To my knowledge, Uriah had never been brazen or cruel, but neither had he sought the Lord as earnestly as David. Uriah swore his loyalty to men, while David pledged his loyalty to HaShem.

  I lay back on my pillow and felt a hot tear trickle from the corner of my eye. I had lost more than a son; I had lost faith in the prophecy that had given my life meaning and purpose. What kind of God bestows a promise and then withdraws it? Was I merely a plaything for Adonai’s amusement? Did the Almighty enjoy tormenting women like me?

  I wept, not only for the child I had lost but for all the hours and days I had spent trying to be the kind of woman who could raise a child intended for greatness. My mother’s admonitions, my father’s instruction—why had they been so foolish as to believe the prophet’s words?

  Their beliefs, their work, their aspirations . . . pointless! Meaningless! I had imagined myself chosen and special, but apparently I was nothing but an attractive woman who’d been brutalized by a powerful man. Since David apparently no longer found me appealing, I would be like Michal, condemned to live alone in a palace filled with people.

  The thought of my loveless future drew bitter tears from some deep place behind my eyes, and I spent the rest of the night weeping.

  Thirty-three days after our son’s birth, I took a spotless one-year-old lamb to the Tabernacle for my purification offering. And that night David the king sent for me. I went to him because I needed to confirm his conviction that we would indeed see our child again.

  David invited me to sit on a cushion near the fire pit in his private chamber. Once I was settled, he sat next to me and asked what was on my mind.

  I studied the fire to avoid his piercing gaze. “In truth, my lord and king, I have been thinking about our baby. I have come to believe that his death was my fault, for once I realized I was having a child, I hated him. I despised him for existing and I wanted him gone.” Though I struggled to hold them back, tears began to flow again. “I thought God was punishing me, and on some nights when I couldn’t sleep I went so far as to pray that he would die within my womb—”

  “Bathsheba.” David slid closer and tilted his head to better see my face. “You are not to torture yourself with these thoughts. The fault is not yours.”

  I hiccupped a sob, then looked him in the eye. “Why is it not my fault?”

  “Didn’t you hear what the prophet Nathan said? Before the entire court he announced the details of my sin against God. You were not to blame; I am the guilty one. Our baby died because of my sin, not yours.”

  I swiped tears from my cheeks. “But I was not innocent. Hate for you and the child burned hot in my heart, and I did not love him until I held him in my arms. You did wrong, I can’t deny that, but Adonai could not have approved of my feelings. I questioned Him, I doubted Him—”

  “The Lord is quick to forgive the repentant.”

  “Even when the rebel . . . even when she is angry at HaShem?”

  The king’s brows rose, then he smiled. “Even then. Especially then.” He lowered his head to catch my gaze. “You hated me?”

  I hiccupped again, then gave him the truth. “Very much.”

  He nodded. “Your hatred was not unrighteous. I sinned against you, Bathsheba, and I will understand if you can’t forgive me. You wouldn’t be the first wife to hate me, but you might be the first to . . .” He shifted his attention to the dancing flames, which painted his face with flickering light and shadows. “I would like for us to be friends. I know I cannot force you to love a man who has injured you so grievously, but I know who you are and I am honored to have you as my wife. I would be greatly pleased if you would give me an opportunity to be your husband.”

  Blinking my remaining tears away, I studied his profile. How did he know who I was? And what, exactly, did he expect of me? I was his wife and his subject already; my heart and body were his to command.

  “My lord and king—”

  “Please.” He turned to me, his right hand lifting to thumb away the trace of a tear on my cheek. “When we are together like this, let me be David, and you shall be Bathsheba.”

  I stiffened, torn between a desire to lean into his palm and the urge to stand and run. “David.” I swallowed hard. “I am your wife already.”

  “As is Michal,” he said, his brow lifting, “yet she no longer desires my company, so I do not force her to endure it. I have wives aplenty, but I have few confidantes.”

  An image flitted through my mind, the memory of David embracing Abigail in the hallway outside my room. She was one of his confidantes, surely, because the connection between them had been almost palpable.

  “I have a question,” I said, strengthening my voice, “because I must find solace in my grief. I have heard that you said our son could not return to you, but you would go to him. How do you know this? That child was my reason for living, so I must know if I will see him again. I must be sure that Adonai’s word is truth.”

  David’s eyes widened, with an odd expression coming over his face, one of eagerness and tenderness mingled together. “You are the first woman to ever ask me such a question,” he said, smiling. “But consider this. After Samuel died, Saul visited a witch in order to summon Saul’s spirit from the place of the dead. We are commanded not to do such things, and Samuel rebuked Saul for the act that brought them together again. But Samuel remained alive, though not on earth. HaShem has set eternity in our hearts, so we know death is not the end.
It cannot be.

  “You can be sure, Bathsheba.” David slipped an arm around me, and my skin tingled at his touch. “You can be sure of Adonai, and you can be sure of me. From this day forward, I promise to be a good husband to you. I will treat you with kindness, compassion, and gentleness. And if Adonai blesses us with another son . . .”

  The words had barely entered my ears when a realization followed. David was speaking kindly to me; he did not regard me with disdain. If he could be trusted, if Adonai could be trusted, I could have another son.

  My stomach knotted with anticipation. “Yes?”

  “I will name your son as my heir. Before you and Adonai, I make this solemn vow.”

  He leaned toward me, but I placed my hand against his chest in order to search his eyes. They did not burn as they had on our first meeting, but neither were they senseless from too much wine. David’s gaze brimmed with sincerity and truth, so perhaps my prophecy would be fulfilled with another son, one who was not yet born.

  I moved my hand to his neck as, with a soft sigh, the king settled his mouth on mine.

  Throughout the next several months, the king showered me with gifts. A heavy gold chain one week, a silk tunic and robe the next. He must have asked a servant to discover my favorite flower, for a bowl of lotus blossoms appeared on my dressing table one morning and every day afterward.

  I hesitated to embrace these gifts because I knew the other wives would notice if I exhibited any signs of special favor. So the flowers remained in my room, and I wore the new garments and jewelry only when the king sent for me. He seemed to take pleasure from seeing me in silks and jewels, and to my surprise I took pleasure in our evenings together.

  By the time I recognized the signs of pregnancy, I had come to terms with my marriage and my position in the palace. For reasons only He understood, Adonai had placed me in the king’s house to bear a son who would do great things for Israel. The prophecy did not involve my first son, the child who suffered the consequences of David’s sin, but my second. In His mercy, HaShem did not doubt me as quickly as I had doubted Him.

  When the first three months of my pregnancy had passed, I answered the king’s summons with a light step. We dined together in his chamber, but afterward, instead of following him to his bed, I took his hand and led him to the cushions around the fire pit.

  “What’s this?” His brow arched as he followed me. “Are you cold?”

  “Not at all.” I waited until he sat, then sat next to him. “I wanted to give you some news.”

  He reached out and wound a strand of my hair around his finger. “Do you want something? I will do my best to grant any request.”

  “This isn’t exactly a request—at least, not yet.” I exhaled in a rush, then caught another quick breath. “I am carrying another child. And if I bear a son, I beg you to remember your promise.”

  David grinned at me, joy shining in his eyes and bubbling in his laugh. “Adonai be praised for His goodness and mercy. He has given us another chance. And this son—this baby—will be king after me.”

  He clutched my shoulders, drew me to him, and kissed me, a gesture that began with joyful abandon and ended on a more serious note. Before the king’s passion could fully ignite, however, I pulled away and pressed my fingers to his mouth. I wanted to deliver a bit of a speech, so I lowered my gaze and let the words tumble out. “Now that I carry another child,” I told him, “you needn’t send for me so often. I know you’ve lavished gifts and attention on me because you wanted to atone for the past. That is finished now, so you no longer have to pretend. I am quite content, and I wanted you to know that.”

  When David did not answer immediately, I lifted my gaze to search his face. The leaping light in his eyes had gone out.

  “I see.” David released me and turned to face the fire. When he spoke again, his voice seemed to come from a great distance. “So you want nothing else from me?”

  “Only your grace and continued kindness, my lord.”

  “Then that is what you shall have.” He tossed a polite smile over his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing your news. You may return to the harem.”

  I blinked, stunned by his swift change in attitude, but if he no longer wanted me . . .

  I stood and bowed, then turned for the door. As I reached the threshold, he called out one final command: “Before you return to your chamber, send Abigail to me.”

  I paused, nodded, and hurried off to obey.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bathsheba

  A YEAR AFTER DAVID AND I PAID A HORRIBLE PRICE for Uriah’s death, I gave birth to David’s tenth son, a baby every bit as handsome as my first. This chubby, well-formed child was ruddy like his father and exhibited no signs of illness. David and I rejoiced, and at the baby’s circumcision on the eighth day I named him Solomon, meaning his replacement. David might have thought I was referring to the baby we lost, but I had proffered the name while thinking of Uriah.

  Nathan attended our child’s naming ceremony, and a cold hand slid over my spine when I saw the prophet approach the king’s throne. I wanted to welcome my childhood friend, but I couldn’t help wondering if he had received another dire message from Adonai.

  The prophet caught my gaze and smiled with the easy grace that had always been a part of his nature. He came forward and lowered his head to study our newborn son. Then he looked at David and spoke in a voice pitched for our ears alone. “So says Adonai: ‘Because you have killed many men in the battles you have fought, and since you have shed so much blood in my sight, you will not be the one to build a Temple to honor my name. But this son—this Solomon—will be a man of peace. I will give him peace with his enemies in all the surrounding lands. I will give peace and quiet to Israel during his reign. He is the one who will build a Temple to honor my name. He will be my son, and I will be his father. And I will secure the throne of his kingdom over Israel forever.’”

  A thrill raced through my soul. Nathan had uttered the confirmation I had waited a lifetime to hear. This son, this baby boy, would not only do great things for Israel, he would be a great king. For this moment, I had been born and had waited a lifetime.

  David silently absorbed the prophet’s private message as Nathan looked into my eyes and raised his voice for the entire assembly to hear: “So says the Lord: ‘This child is much loved of God.’” His voice boomed through the crowded hall. “‘And I will give him another name: he shall be called Jedidiah, or beloved of the Lord, for Adonai’s sake.’”

  I felt the truth as if the Lord himself had whispered in my ear. I knew it as certainly as I knew the sun would rise on the morrow. I knew it down to the marrow of my bones and the innermost recesses of my heart. Samuel had not prophesied of my first son when he glimpsed the future at my mother’s purification ceremony. He had spoken of this tenth son of David’s. Solomon would be king—not because I schemed or plotted or flattered but because Adonai had willed it years before this baby’s birth.

  I remained silent, awed and thrilled by my new understanding. Before I came to the palace, I had lived a quietly prideful life, confident I had been somehow elevated from the women around me. Samuel’s prophecy had filled me with an unmerited sense of worth, but HaShem destroyed my false self-image when He took my first son. For weeks I mourned the death of my self-centered dreams, but David had helped restore my faith in Adonai and His truth.

  Though I knew I held the son of the prophecy in my arms, I would not consider him to be something I deserved, but an unmerited blessing from the Almighty. And because I lived in a harem teeming with jealous, suspicious women, I would remain quiet and do my best to raise my son to be a good man and a great king.

  I would cling to God’s promise until the crown rested on Solomon’s head. Not because he deserved it more than any of David’s other sons, but because Adonai loved him as He loved David. Nathan had assured me that my son would be beloved of the Lord.

  As a ripple of approval passed over the assembled guests, I looked
at the king’s other children to see how they felt about their new brother. Eleven-year-old Amnon, ten-year-old Tamar, and nine-year-old Absalom stood closest to us, but only Tamar looked at the baby with any curiosity. The boys seemed bored and eager to be away.

  But pretty little Tamar leaned closer and gave the baby her finger, which he promptly pulled to his mouth. She giggled softly and grinned while I gave her my warmest smile.

  Unless I was sorely mistaken, Tamar would grow up to be a tob woman.

  While my Shlomo was still a nursing infant, Joab sent a message to the king, reporting that he had captured the water supply for the city of Rabbah. The Ammonite stronghold, long under siege, had been severely compromised, so if David wanted the honor of capturing the city, he should assemble the rest of the army and hurry to Rabbah for what would certainly be the final battle.

  The king sent for the baby and me to kiss us before he left. He did not summon any of the other wives, and I suspected that he thought of me only because Uriah lay buried somewhere in the fields outside that city. I couldn’t blame David for wanting to be finished with this chapter of his life. God had forgiven him; now David wanted to conquer both the city and his past.

  The king and his army rode out and merged with Joab’s forces. Together, the armies of David and Joab fought against the men of the beleaguered capital and captured it. David entered the town, killed King Hanun, and took Hanun’s crown from his head, a ceremonial action that proved to be unusual because the gold crown, set with dozens of precious stones, weighed more than seventy-five pounds. The warriors took a great deal of plunder from the vanquished city and set the survivors to work producing bricks, iron tools, and timber for Israel.

  The people of Jerusalem would sing about the victory for years to come. Standing on the palace rooftop to watch the triumphant army’s return to Jerusalem, I shifted the baby in my arms and realized that if I were still Uriah’s wife, I would have spent the past two years waiting for his return. I would not have my beautiful baby, but neither would I have plumbed the depths of heartache and despair.