I smiled; this time it did not make my face ache. “No, I am not mad. But I must speak to the prophet Nathan.”
“Speak, then,” said David. And smiled.
“Alone,” I said, and waited for David’s smile to change, for his eyes to warn.
“Speak alone, then,” said David, and his expression did not alter; there was no warning there. There was nothing but kindness and forbearance. “I will await you here.”
David sat upon the bench where I had spent so many hours watching for Nathan’s return. He looked out over the city below, all his city now. I led Nathan to the far end of the balcony; no one would overhear us there, and I could watch David as I spoke.
“Someone came before you, and so I know your news already,” I said, before Nathan could speak. “And there is something you must know—it was King David who slew Phaltiel.”
Nathan looked kindly upon me and took my hand. “No, no,” he said. “The king was here, you know that. It was robbers who fell upon Phaltiel. The king has ordered men to search for them, that they may be punished.”
“Tell the men to search here, in the king’s house, then! For it was David—he sent someone to kill my husband, that he might keep me. You know I am here against my will.”
I still spoke calm and firm, but my bones were chill; they knew already what I still could not bear to know. Nathan did not believe. Nathan would not believe. I could tell it from his eyes, and from the slow sad way he shook his head at my words.
“You are a good woman, Michal, and you grieve rightly for Phaltiel.” Nathan patted my hand, as if I were a small child. “But you are wrong. King David did all as he should—why, he even sent me with rich gifts for Phaltiel and all his family, to show that he bore no ill will.”
“Kings give easy gifts,” I said. “Nathan, you must listen—”
“No, you must listen,” Nathan said, and his voice was gentle. “You must not say such things about King David, Michal.”
“They are true!”
Nathan shook his head. “Look into your heart, daughter, and you will know that it is only your grief that speaks. When you are calmer, you will regret your hasty words.”
“I am calm, and I have given much thought to my words,” I said. “David wanted me, and Phaltiel would not give me up. That is why he was killed.”
Nathan looked sad. “What is your proof, child?”
I was silent; there was no proof, only my heart’s wisdom. But I had thought that Nathan would know truth when he heard it, and believe me. Samuel would have believed.
“You see? There is none. And you do not know that Phaltiel would not have given you up. For I will tell you a thing that the king would not—he also sent a message to Phaltiel, to ask if he would consent to give you to the king. And King David offered him much if he would do this, for David loves you well. So you see, there was no need for the king to slay Phaltiel—no need at all.”
“No.” I was numb, as if I had drunk too much wine. “No. Phaltiel would not have done that. He would have taken me back. He swore it.”
Nathan patted my hand again. “David is a great man, Michal—and greatly loved by Yahweh. Such a man is born but seldom. Only see what he has already done for our people—why, even the Philistine kings do him honor. David will bring glory to Yahweh, glory to Yahweh’s people. No longer will we be weak, but strong—yes, stronger than all our enemies.”
I stepped back, away from Nathan. “You will not help me,” I said. “You will let David do this thing. Are you blind, Nathan? Can you not see what David is?”
But Nathan’s eyes glowed now as if he saw bright visions. “David honors Yahweh and walks meek before him. David honors Yahweh’s priests and prophets. David is Yahweh’s beloved and Yahweh will raise him up, and all his people with him, until his kingdom covers half the earth.”
I looked past Nathan. David sat still upon the bench, watching us. He still smiled. When he saw me looking, he rose to his feet.
He walked across the balcony to me, slow and confident, like a lion advancing upon a fallen lamb. I thought I stood there proud and waiting; I did not know I had moved until I felt the stones of the balcony wall hard against my back.
David stopped before me. “You have spoken alone with Nathan, as you wished,” he said. “Now can you rest content, my love?”
“I have told her the truth, O King.” Nathan seemed to take pride in calling David so.
My mouth was dry and my skin cold, but I spoke. “So now kings buy truth in the marketplace. What does truth cost you, David?”
Nathan looked upon me and spoke again, soft and kind. “The sun is hot, and you have had ill news, daughter. You should rest quiet inside, where the air is cooler.”
It was useless; I looked away, but saw nothing save hot bright light. I heard Nathan go, his sandals brisk against the stones. Then I looked back at David, the golden king shimmering before my eyes in the cruel sun.
“You see?” David said. “You rave, Michal.”
And still he smiled. I closed my eyes and bowed my head; when I looked again, David was gone. But my women were there—there to tend me gently, and to make me lie down quiet inside, in the cool shadowed rooms.
I let them do with me as they would, as if I were a child’s doll, with no more will than that toy possessed. And when I lay upon my bed and they had closed the ivory shutters, I asked for Zhurleen to be brought to me. I had not seen Zhurleen since she had come to tell me Caleb was safe away from Jerusalem. Now I wished to see her once more, to speak with one who saw the world clearly. One who did not lie to me and slant her eyes away. One who was my friend.
So I roused myself enough to ask for her.
“Zhurleen?” said Chuldah, with her sideways look. “The Philistine concubine? Why, she is gone, O Queen.”
“Gone?” I stared, my mind blank as new parchment. “Where has she gone? I wish to see her.”
“I do not know. I know only that she no longer dwells under the king’s roof. But she was only a Philistine harlot, not worthy of your notice.” Chuldah smoothed the linen sheet over me and nodded at the others. “Now you will rest, and Keziah will fan you. Do not trouble yourself, O Queen—we will take great care of you, for you are precious to us.”
It was useless; David had reached out his hand and all was bone and ash. I turned my face away and closed my eyes.
I thought I never again would care for anything, after that. I lay upon my bed weak and silent, as if I were ill. But I was not ill; at least my body was not. I think now it was my mind that sickened.
It was my mind that would not let me truly rest, or sleep. When I closed my eyes I saw Phaltiel’s face, saw him smiling at me in love and trust. Trust that I had betrayed, thinking myself faithful.
When I stopped my ears, I heard again Zhurleen’s words; she had warned me, but I had been both blind and deaf. Zhurleen, my wise friend—why had I not heard or understood? If I had bowed to David’s wishes, Phaltiel would live today.
Now that it was too late, I knew that David had won even before the battle. But I did not yet know how complete was his victory, how tight-closed his trap. That was left for Abigail to show me.
When I had lain three days upon my bed, Abigail came to see me. She came in malice, and not for kindness’s sake; her first words told that plain.
“The queen is bored again, I see.” Abigail’s lips, were pinched thin; the lines around her red mouth cut deep.
Abigail’s woes were no fault of mine. I looked at her once, and then closed my eyes. It was easiest, I had found, to let people speak over me as they would. I need not listen, or heed.
“Perhaps the queen will not be so bored when she hears what I next will tell the king.” Abigail had bent over me, her voice hissed close to my ear.
I did not look at her. “Tell him what you please. I do not care.”
“Will you care when I tell him how you tricked me? How you begged me to send a messenger to the man you called husband, so that you would seem inn
ocent? The man who now lies dead, struck down by robbers—or so they say. But I know better, O Queen.”
I opened my eyes and looked into Abigail’s. They were flat with malice, like an adder’s. She waited, poised above me, while I pondered her words. They seemed empty noise, meaningless to me. At last I said, “I never tricked you, Abigail. Now go, and leave me to my grief.”
She laughed, short and harsh. “I know how much you grieve, Queen Michal! And soon others will know too.”
My heart was ice and my blood ran thick with sorrow, but I was not yet dead. Abigail’s words pricked deep, as they were meant to; anger woke in me, sharp as thorn.
I sat up then. “I do not know what you mean, Abigail. I have spoken only truth to you; it is not my fault if you do not believe me.
“Oh, you were clever—but not so clever as I!” Abigail tossed her head. “But I am a good woman; how could I know what you would do, to be queen?”
Yes, I thought, as anger’s thorn bit deep. Yes, I still live. Perhaps I should have thanked Abigail, for showing me that. But I did not.
Instead, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. I had lain abed too long, and so was weak as a new-born lamb. When I first stood, blood pounded behind my eyes and lights flashed and danced like torches, blurring my sight.
“And what is it I have done, Abigail?” My voice came from far away, as if it were not my own. “Tell me, for I do not know.”
“You are shameless,” Abigail said. “Shameless, and heartless, and no true woman. No one else dares to say so, but I do!”
“If you dare so much,” I said, “then say the rest plain.” If only Zhurleen had spoken plain, I would have known the truth. If only Zhurleen had spoken plain—would I have believed?
Abigail began to speak, but I had thought of something that she might know, and so I held up my hand to stoop her. “You say you know everything, Abigail—tell me, then, do you know what became of Zhurleen? My women tell me she has gone.”
Abigail started as if I indeed raved. “Zhurleen? That Philistine slut? What was she to you, that you care what became of her?”
“My friend,” I said. I thought of Zhurleen’s dancing hands and cautious eyes. Perhaps Zhurleen had been sent back to Philistia. Back to her home in Ascalon, where the sea whispered and sighed beneath her windows … .
“A Philistine whore! A fine friend!” Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “Now I see—she was the one who helped you. She was always a sly, sneaking thing, I knew she could not be trusted! But do not look for her to aid you now—she is gone. David tired of her, as we all knew he would, and sold her—to a slave-dealer going north, or so I heard. He is better rid of her than he knew!”
I did not act in hot rage; I thought quiet for a moment, and then I raised my hand and slapped Abigail hard across her cheek. “She was the only true woman under this roof,” I said. “King David cannot tell gold from dross.”
I thought Abigail might try to strike me in turn; I would not have blamed her if she had. But Abigail only gaped at me, and took a step backward.
“Now,” I said to her calmly, as if we talked only of the weather, “tell me why you came here to torment me. What have I done to you, Abigail, that you should hate me so?”
Then Abigail’s truth was spoken, spat out like a cobras poison. I had taken her place in David’s heart; I had stolen what was hers. I had told her I had no wish to be queen—“—yet your husband—or so you called him—lies dead! No one knows who slew him, but I do! Who else had cause to wish him dead but you?”
She backed away as she spoke, as if fearing I would strike her again. But I did not, for I could not deny her words.
I was guilty. I had struck Phaltiel down as surely as if my own hand had dealt the blow.
“And do not think you shall escape justice, for I shall tell King David what manner of woman you are,” Abigail said. “He would never dream such evil—he thinks only good of everyone. But he must know this, lest you bring shame and dishonor to him, as you did to that man Phaltiel!”
“Go and tell him, then,” I said.
After Abigail had gone—quickly, as if she feared I might somehow stop her—I sat down again upon my bed. I saw at last how cunning David had been; how closely he held me in his net. Now, when I looked through Abigail’s eyes, I saw what others would see. What David had meant them to see.
Who had more to gain than I from killing Phaltiel? To become King David’s queen, she bought her husband’s death. That was what men would say, if that death were brought to judgment.
It was not David who would stand accused of Phaltiel’s murder.
It was I.
I do not know what David said to Abigail, when she accused me to him. But she never afterwards spoke a word to me, save at his command.
I cannot say her silence grieved me overmuch.
The days were long, after that. And the nights were longer.
By day I walked queenly and obedient, as I had been bidden. By night I lay in David’s arms and let him have his will of my docile body.
By day my hair and wrists and ankles glittered with gold, with carnelian, with lapis and fine silver. I had new robes, more than any woman could wear; robes stiff with embroidery and heavy with tassels. I had necklaces and earrings of crystal, coral, chalcedony. I had gold dust on my hair and mirrored sandals on my feet.
By day, I had all a man thinks a woman dreams of.
By night, I had David.
I had thought I knew what grief, and anger, and bitterness were. Now I learned them anew each time I held out my arms to David as if he were my heart’s delight. I dared do nothing else, even as I called myself coward and harlot.
Only one risk did I take, and that was to speak of Phaltiel’s family, that had once been mine. I could not bear not knowing, but I knew I dared not send a message to them; no, not so much as one word. And so I did what I had sworn I never would. I begged a favor of David.
I wished to make it a simple thing, but it came hard. I hated the asking, and I feared what I might hear; my face was hot and my fingers trembled as I spoke the words.
“Phaltiel’s family? Oh, yes—he had three sons, and two daughters as well, did he not? And grandchildren, too?” It was strange knowledge to have so ready to his tongue; King David showing me the lion’s paw held heavy over those I loved.
“Yes. I—I would know if they are well. I was fond of them, when I dwelt among them.” I heard the pleading in my voice, and was afraid to say more.
David slid my hair through his fingers; he liked to weave it into chains, as if he would bind me with them. “They are well, Michal—even the boy Caleb. The king is shepherd to his people; I sent them gifts to ease their loss. Do not trouble yourself over them; they are nothing to us now.”
And then David smiled upon me, and spread my braided hair across my breast. “There, you see? My loving wife has only to ask, and it is granted.”
He was pleased I had come to him for even so small a thing. So pleased that he did not even demand I smile.
That summer, there was much to please King David. It seemed he had only to stretch out his hand and whatever he wished fell into it like ripe fruit.
He already held all the south; I knew Abner had promised to bring him the north as well. Abner, once war-chief of King Saul, then war-chief of King Ishbaal. Abner, who had been rewarded well for bringing me to Jerusalem, and better for abandoning my brother Ishbaal. Without Abner, King Ishbaal’s warriors scattered to their homes. Without Abner, Ishbaal’s crown was David’s for the asking.
So now—Abner, war-chief of King David.
The title had a fine ring to it. And as King David’s star rose daily higher, Abner had reason to think himself both clever and fortunate. King David gave with lavish hands.
But Abner did not enjoy his triumph long. For King David had a war-chief before Abner—Joab.
Joab was a mighty warrior and a proud man. And he was David’s nephew, being the son of David’s sister Zeruiah. Joab had
fought at David’s left hand since David had first taunted King Saul in the wilderness. Joab had been the first man up the well to take Jerusalem by cunning and force.
Joab, war-chief of David—who knew David’s mind without need of words.
So when Abner went away from Jerusalem on some business of King David’s, Joab sent after him and called him back—in David’s name. Abner was no fool; he would never have heeded a message from Joab.
When Abner came inside the city gate, Joab killed him. For vengeance, Joab said. Because Abner had slain Joab’s brother Asahel in some forgotten battle. Blood called for blood.
King David made a great noise of mourning for Abner, and buried Abner with as many honors as if he loved him well. King David publicly reviled Joab and all his family for the dishonor they had brought to David’s name. And all men saw King David turn his face from Joab, and weep for Abner.
And Joab did penance for his crime; David forced him to walk behind Abner’s bier, wailing and rending his garments. But nothing else was done, for all that Abner had been slaughtered like a sheep within the gates of David’s own city
Harsh words were heaped upon Joab’s head, and Joab bowed down under them; when he rose again, he held Abner’s honors in his own hands.
And so—Joab, once more war-chief of King David.
I heard all the story from my women. They knew every tale told at the well, and retold all of them to each other. It did not seem to matter to the women whether or not I attended to them as they chattered. Often I did not, for listening tired me.
But I listened well to the tale of Abner and Joab, and of King David’s grief and horror. And I thought, and counted time upon my fingers.
It was only forty days since Abner had taken me from Phaltiel and brought me to King David’s court, a seal upon Abner’s bargain with King David. Now Abner had his reward.
I suppose I should have rejoiced to hear of Abner’s death. But I could not; I could think only of how Abner had stood faithful at my father Saul’s side through all those years.
Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen Page 15