Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen

by Edghill, India

  Zhurleen sat so still she did not seem even to blink. “Say you never lay with Phaltiel,” she said. “Say that all these years you lay chaste beside him, waiting for David.”

  “No one will believe that!”

  “If you say it is true, Phaltiel will not deny it if he loves you as you say. And then your marriage to him will be no marriage, and between you and the king there will be no adultery. And if there are those who do not believe—well, they will not say so,” said Zhurleen. “Not where the king’s men can hear.”

  Anger still ruled me, its grip so strong it forced all else from my mind. Anger tore away the accusations and the harsh words I wished to fling at Zhurleen and devoured them until I could say nothing at all.

  “I thought,” I said at last, “that you were my friend.”

  Zhurleen stood to face me. “I am your friend. And because I am, I will risk much and speak freely. Now listen to me, Michal, for what I say is worth hearing.

  “You are not happy here—or you think you are not. I do not believe, when you speak wildly, that it is a sign of madness. But they say your father was mad. I do not know whether that is true. But do not give King David that whip to rule you.”

  Each word she spoke rang strangely clear against my ears, like a bell chiming on a frosty morning.

  “You are the queen,” Zhurleen said. “If you would have happiness and power, do as I have told you.”

  “Leave me,” I said, and my voice was cold as winter dawn.

  Zhurleen bowed. “O Queen, live forever,” she murmured, and was gone.

  When I was alone I sank back down upon my bed and gave myself to my anger. Never, I thought. Never, never would I become like Zhurleen. She had no heart; none. Send a girl to warm my Phaltiel’s bed—

  I laid my shaking hand upon a embroidered cushion; I traced its patterns, hoping to calm myself.

  My trembling fingers slipped easily across the fine threadwork, smooth as oil sliding over water.

  CHAPTER 11

  “This will be the manner of the king that shall reign … .”

  —I Samuel 8:11

  The next morning anger still ruled me; I would allow none of my maids to tend me. “I am neither old nor ill,” I told them. “I will wash myself—yes, and dress myself, too! Go, and leave me in peace.”

  It was a battle I could not win; I might be neither old nor ill, but I had only two hands and no talent for donning finery. I found that a queen’s clothes need a queen’s maids to wrap them and to fasten them. And so in the end I must call back my maidservants, if I would dress.

  And when I had been forced to that I was twice angered, and so nothing pleased me. At first my women tried fair words and a new veil, a new girdle, a new necklace, hoping with such honey to sweeten my temper. Then they worked silent, with careful hands and downcast eyes.

  When I was ready they stepped back, and bowed, and I thought of the day that stretched before me with nothing to fill its hours. No, I thought then. No, I would no longer sit with empty hands, pretending to be what I was not.

  “A spindle,” I said. “Bring me a spindle, and some wool.” And when they stared, round-eyed as sheep, I stamped my foot, as unruly as if I were a wild girl again. “Are you deaf? You may idle all the day away, but I will not! Fetch me what I asked for, and quickly! Do not tell me that in all this great house there is not one spindle, not one handful of wool fit for spinning!”

  The spindle they found for me was formed of ivory, its whirl of amber; pretty as if it were a toy. Still, it spun well enough. An ivory spindle still could serve an honest purpose.

  My skin was soft, and so the new-washed fleece seemed harsh. I had done no work in too long; my fingers reddened as I twirled and drew thread. But I would not stop. I swore that there would be at least one task well done in the king’s house this day

  And so I was spinning in the queen’s courtyard, diligent as a spider, when Abigail came upon me. She spied me from the gallery, for I did not keep my gate closed against the world. When she saw what I was about, she came into the courtyard in a clash of anklets and a cloud of musk.

  “Fine work for a lady’s fine hands!” Abigail said. “You are not living in a farmhouse now—why not leave such work to the maids?”

  “Because they are useless as weeds in the road!” Then I heard how my voice sounded, shrill as Abigail’s own. And so I gentled it; what I suffered was no fault of Abigail’s. “Such work passes the time,” I said. “Here I find time lies heavy in the hand. Do you not find it so?”

  Abigail stared at me; even the paint she wore thick upon eyes and cheeks and mouth could not hide her surprise. “The queen is bored?” Abigail made a queen sound lower in her eyes than a village harlot.

  “I am not a queen.” I said it firm, and set my mouth tight, and watched my thread. It was easy to tangle, and difficult to unknot after.

  Abigail spoke on as if she had not heard. “If you are bored now, when the king smiles upon you, what will you do when the king turns away? Oh, he sends you gifts, but he does not come to you—we all know that. You cannot hold him—I have been married to David these ten years, and he always comes back to me, in the end. What is a crown worth, compared to that?”

  Sour words, spoken by a woman jealous as a cat of its place in the sun. Words that told wishes, not truth. And when I heard them, I was sorry for Abigail, for I remembered what Zhurleen had said of her. Abigail fought a battle already lost, and lost through no fault of hers.

  Oh, Abigail was still comely enough, and must have been pretty when she was younger, and a wealthy widow. But as Zhurleen had rightly said, Abigail was no longer young, and no longer had anything with which to bargain against her rivals. No wonder Abigail hated me; my coming had wounded an already sore heart—

  That was when my own heart seemed to cease beating and then leap up again for sheer joy. At last I saw before me my true deliverance from this place; I must have been blind, that I had not seen this path before. My hands were no longer steady; I stopped spinning thread and laid the ivory spindle in my lap.

  “Abigail, let us speak plainly—I do not want your husband. I have a better one of my own, and no matter what King David says, I am not his queen and not his wife.”

  “You spin thread better than tales! David is the sun for beauty and the moon for love, and king besides—and you would rather have an old farmer who cannot even give you sons?” She glared at me, angry as if David were her first-born son and I a rich bride spurning him at the very moment of wedding.

  I laughed; I could not help it. Abigail stared at me as if I were mad. Perhaps she thought I was—I was Mad Saul’s daughter, after all.

  “Yes,” I said at last. “I would rather have my old farmer. But he is not so old as that, and he gave his first wife sons enough.”

  “Then why do you stay here?”

  “Find me a way to send word to my husband Phaltiel.” My blood beat hard as I said his name. “Find me a way, and he will come and I will go, and trouble you no more.”

  “Do you swear that is true? Your husband will take you back?”

  “Yes. Yes, he will take me back. And I will go gladly. But I must be able to send true word—I sent a message once, and was betrayed. I have no one I can trust. Abigail, will you help me?”

  She embraced me, then, and swore that she would. Tears welled in her eyes; wet kohl streaked her reddened cheeks. “I will bless you all the days of my life,” Abigail said, and kissed my cheek before she hurried away, all jangle and flash.

  Poor Abigail, I thought, and smiled. My anger was gone, turned all to pleasure in my own cleverness. I picked up the pretty spindle and set it spinning again; I hummed softly as thread formed and lengthened between my busy fingers.

  Abigail was swift and clever; it was how she had won marriage from David all those years ago, after all. She did well for me and for herself, and sent me the prophet Nathan.

  It was a wise choice. David might keep me behind the women’s walls and stop my words a
t his gates—but prophets went where and how they would, and obeyed only Yahweh. Even a king could not say them nay.

  I had heard of Nathan even before I had been brought to Jerusalem; he was the first great prophet in the land since Samuel died. The priests, who had spent the years since Samuel’s death quarreling among themselves, agreed now that Nathan spoke with the true voice of Yahweh.

  And as proof of his worth and power, Nathan carried Samuel’s own staff. Before Samuel died, it was said that he had given his staff to David; David had placed the great prophet’s legacy into Nathan’s hands. Yes, even King David bowed humble before Nathan and gave him all honor.

  That was all I knew of Nathan, then: that he was a prophet, a truth-sayer, a pillar upholding Yahweh’s Law. Later I learned to know Nathan for myself, and to value him at his true worth.

  The first time I saw Nathan he seemed to me an unlikely prophet, but no law decrees prophets must be tall and lean and dry as bone, after all. Nathan came, round and red, puffing from the heat; when he listened to my words, his face grew even redder. “This is a disgrace to the land and to the king,” Nathan said sternly, and took my hand. Nathan was the only prophet I ever knew who did not seem to dislike all women. “Come, we will go now and speak to him.”

  “I cannot. David will not let me set foot beyond the women’s gate.”

  This meant nothing to Nathan, and so he did not listen. He simply led me along and waved his staff at any who barred our way until we came into the king’s great courtyard, where David sat at judgment.

  Nathan strode up to the king’s chair and pulled my veil from my hair to show me plain to all men in the court. “This woman says you keep her here for your own pleasure, against her will and while she has a husband elsewhere. Is this true, O King?”

  David’s face was smooth as fresh butter; he even smiled. “It is not. All men know that Princess Michal was my wife first—it is only right that I take her back under my roof.”

  “She has a husband still living who has not set her aside. If he will not, you must send her back to him.”

  I was glad we stood in open court before many witnesses; David’s eyes did not make for pleasant thoughts. I had seen my father’s eyes like that. King’s eyes.

  But David spoke softly enough, for all the look in his eyes; my father would not have done that. “Very well, Nathan—come aside, and I will speak with you privately on this matter.”

  “Kings have no private matters,” Nathan said. But he went aside with David, and they spoke together while I stood unveiled and held my head proud and my mouth tight.

  At last Nathan came back to me, smiling and nodding. “I have made the king see his error—for he is truly a good man—and he has promised to amend it as best he may. Be no more troubled in spirit, daughter—give me the message for your husband and I myself will carry your words.”

  “And I,” David told Nathan, “will send the king’s best men to escort you in all honor, to show how I atone for my sin and folly. And I will send servants and fine gifts to this woman’s husband, and I will beg his forgiveness.”

  “If you send all that,” I said, “send me as well.” Home, I thought. Soon I would look down the long valley of Gallim, and see Phaltiel’s house basking in the sun—

  David shook his head. “Ah, Michal—you are a good woman, and forgiving, but you were right, and I wrong. I have sinned against you, and against Phaltiel. I must show all men that I acknowledge my sin, and make amends.”

  A show for men’s eyes. I should have known; always David thought of that. But I did not protest again. This was the last time I must bow meekly to David’s wishes, after all. I had won; I could wait a little longer.

  “Yahweh has shown me the wrong I have done,” said David, smiling at all the world, “and now he has shown me how I may right it.”

  David was as good as his word in open court. He would not let Nathan go alone with my message to Phaltiel; no, the prophet Nathan must be sent on his way with as many men and servants and baggage mules as if Nathan himself were king. It took time to make all ready for such a grand journey, and so Nathan did not leave Jerusalem that day, or the next. I wished he would go quickly and at once, but I understood that David wished to stand well with Yahweh’s prophet.

  But on the third day I stood beside David upon the wall above the high gate to the king’s house and watched as Nathan’s procession marched out. The cavalcade would make a great show for all Jerusalem before it reached the city gate. Armed men marched before Nathan; plump servants and laden mules followed him. Nathan fit oddly between glory and riches, for he was only a small round man in a coarse robe. But Nathan walked proud, as Samuel once had—and Nathan smiled wide, as if life pleased him. I did not think life had ever pleased Samuel.

  “There, you see, Michal? Nathan goes to Gallim, as you asked. You see how I keep my word.” David’s eyes were clear and bright in the sunlight, like a child’s.

  “Yes,” I said. “I see.” I watched, and I smiled, and I wondered what Phaltiel would think, when next he saw me. I would show him Michal the queen, I thought. I would ask Zhurleen to dress me finely, and perhaps to curl my hair as she did hers. And Phaltiel would come into the queen’s courtyard and see me sitting there with my eyelids painted glitter-green and my hair oiled ringlets and a dozen copper butterflies pinning my gown—

  —and he would laugh. I could hear him now. Phaltiel would laugh, and catch me up into his arms, and so much for the eye-paint and the hair-oil and the copper pins—

  “Ah, that is better,” David said, and put his hand over mine. “I like to see you smiling, Michal.”

  I looked sideways at David, and smiled wider. “The king is kind,” I said, and bit my lip so that I would not laugh outright. No man likes to be laughed at by a woman—least of all a man who has been forced to admit a fault. So I only smiled, and turned away.

  Oh, I thought myself clever as a vixen, subtle as a serpent. I thought I had bested David at his own game.

  I knew nothing. I was awake, now—but I was still blind.

  Late the next morning I was tossing white pebbles into the fountain in my courtyard. I had my waiting days counted out as pebbles: so many for Nathan to reach Gallim; so many for Phaltiel to reach Jerusalem. I counted and threw carefully, telling over each twist and rise in the road between.

  Seven, I counted. No more than seven days left to wait, for Phaltiel would not march slowly with banners, or linger upon the road. Once he heard my message, he would come swift and sure.

  But I was wrong; I had no longer to wait.

  I heard footsteps upon the paving-stones, and when I looked up, I saw Caleb standing within my gate. I flung all the stones at once into the fountain and ran toward him, holding out my arms. Then I saw Caleb’s face.

  I think I knew then, for I stopped and put out my hands as if to ward off the words that he must speak. “No,” I said.

  Then Zhurleen stepped into the courtyard and closed the ebony gate behind her. “Tell her, boy, and quickly—I have risked much to bring you here. Remember that, Queen Michal, when you number your friends.”

  “Caleb,” I said, and tried to put my arms about him, to clasp him to my breast. But Caleb would not let me; he made himself stiff and straight.

  “Greetings, Queen Michal,” Caleb said. “I bring you news of Phaltiel son of Laish, who was your husband. Will you hear it?”

  I saw he struggled to keep his dignity, and hold aloof from me to speak as a man even though he was only a boy still. It hurt, but I let him have it; I let him go. This time I could not take Caleb in my arms and comfort him as a child.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will hear it.”

  And so I listened as Caleb told me how Phaltiel had gone to visit Miriam and her husband and their children. No one had been surprised when Phaltiel did not return that night, for he was a fond parent, and they did not doubt that Miriam had pressed him to stay. It was unlike him not to send word, but they thought nothing of it until late the next
day, when a boy from Miriam’s house had arrived bearing a well-memorized scolding from her for Phaltiel’s forgetfulness, demanding he come to them at once as he had promised.

  “We worried then,” Caleb said, “and I ran to Miriam’s myself. My father was not there, and nowhere on the road between, and no one could be found who had seen him.” His mouth trembled then and he made it thin, to keep from crying.

  “Do not make a long tale,” Zhurleen said, and her voice was thorn-sharp. “Quickly, I told you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Tell me quickly.” I stood like a pillar, listening as Caleb told me how all the men of two households had searched, and found Phaltiel at last. His body had been hidden, but not well, in a fall of rock not far from the road.

  “By the bend past the village, where the stones are red,” Caleb said.

  I knew the place; a pretty spot, with flowers wild in all the cracks of the rock. Miriam and I had stopped there often on our way to the river with the clothes for washing-day, letting the maidservants go on ahead while we braided poppy-crowns for our hair.

  “I know the spot. Is there more?”

  Zhurleen came forward then, reaching out as if she would seize Caleb. “There, you have told her. Come away now.”

  “No.” My voice came from far, and hard. “Leave him, Zhurleen. I would hear the rest.”

  There were not many wounds upon the body; Phaltiel had been killed by a man who knew how to make a blow count. No one could understand the murder, for Phaltiel was a good man, and had no enemies—and it was not done as robbers would have done it.

  “For they killed his donkey too,” Caleb cried, boy again now that the worst was told. “They slit Dove’s throat and left her lying there—robbers would not have done that, would they, Mother?” Then he came at last into my arms, to weep while I held him close.