Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen

by Edghill, India

  The day she did not appear I nearly wept. I had so little to cheer me, and today not even that. Yes, I nearly flung myself weeping upon my rich bed—and then I thought, Michal, you are a fool. Send a message to her, see if she is well.

  Then I had another thought, a better. “Fool indeed—the very queen of fools,” I said aloud, and clapped my hands. And when a maid came in, I told her to go and ask if Bathsheba would come and visit with me.

  She stared, and went away, and then half a dozen of my women came in all at once. Never before had I asked such a thing; was it wise; what did I mean by it? To hear them exclaim and protest, you would think I had told them to bring in a she-bear taken from her cubs.

  “What I mean is what I said,” I told them. “Go and ask if the woman Bathsheba will come and talk with me.” I was angry, and with myself, for I knew it was my own fault if my servants were insolent. I had let them act so, I, who had prided myself on keeping a smooth house for Phaltiel. I thought about how best to mend my folly, and stamped my foot, hard. “Go, I said—or I will tell the king I am ill-served!”

  That sent them. And that was the first time I knew how power felt. Such a small thing, at first; only an itch under the skin. Such a small thing, to make silly women do my will. Such a small thing, to send for Bathsheba.

  It was not a small thing to Bathsheba. She came in her best gown and veil—I knew they must be her finest, although they looked rough and plain to my eyes. The girdle I had sent her was tied about her hips, oddly brilliant against her gown’s good solid country-cloth. She had tried to weave her hair into the new Jerusalem fashion, and had reddened her lips and put kohl heavy about her round brown eyes.

  I greeted her on my balcony, where we first had seen each other. She bowed to me, and stammered out a greeting.

  “Queen Michal—live forever.”

  I smiled, and reached out to take her hands; I was as excited as she. “Do not be so silly—I am Michal, and you are Bathsheba. And none of us will live forever!”

  “Oh—but they said—your servants—” She stopped and looked down, and her cheeks grew pinker. She was soft and round as a rabbit, and as timid.

  “Do not trouble yourself; I will speak to them. We two are friends, are we not?”

  Bathsheba looked up at me then. She smiled, and sunlight danced in the dark pools of her eyes. “Oh, yes! That is, I shall always be your friend, O my queen. It is a great honor.”

  “Honor is a game for men; I would rather have a friend who loved me.”

  “But you are the queen! Everyone must love you.”

  I laughed, then; I could not help it. Bathsheba was so young, and her paint and spangled veil only made her look younger still. “I am no queen,” I said. “I am only a woman, as you are. Come and sit beside me, and let us talk.”

  We sat upon the padded bench; Bathsheba folded her hands in her lap and stared at me round-eyed. At first she could not believe I wished to hear what she might say Well, I was almost a dozen years older than she—and, as she kept telling me, the queen. I do not know what she thought that made me other than a woman; my mother’s neighbors had never gone wide-eyed in awe of her, when my father Saul was king.

  But I had been right, Bathsheba was alone and lonely in Jerusalem. She was pleased enough to talk freely, once she lost her shyness. And that first day, I learned almost all there was to know about Bathsheba, and her husband Uriah.

  Bathsheba was from the hill country to the north and east; she had been married at fourteen.

  “But that was last harvest—and this summer I shall be fif teen.”

  “I, too was married at fourteen,” I said. “Twice.”

  “Oh, yes—I have heard the songs—Michal.” She still thought it vast daring to say my name.

  “Do not believe every tune you hear sung by the wind.”

  Bathsheba looked at me like a startled doe, and I heard myself as I must sound to her ears. Harsh and bitter. Soon I would have lines around my mouth like Abigail’s, drawing down—Phaltiel’s face was suddenly clear before me. A face whose lines were etched by smiles, a face that was never still and cold—

  And then I saw myself mirrored against the sunlight in Bathsheba’s eyes. The painted queen, with gems upon her arms and gold upon her forehead.

  “I have tired you,” said Bathsheba hastily. “I have talked too long—Uriah always tells me I chatter so! I am sorry; I will go.” There were tears welling up in her eyes; already the kohl was streaking down her lower lids.

  “No,” I said, and put out my hand to clasp hers. On my wrist the brass bangle she had sent me caught fire from the sun, blazing like true gold. “No, you have not tired me, truly you have not. It was only the sun in my eyes that made me look so.”

  She was willing to accept that excuse, of course. She blinked back her tears and saw the bangle. For a moment I thought she would weep again for sheer delight. “Why, you still wear it!”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is my favorite jewel, for I know it is the most precious. Now tell me how you came to have it.”

  Bathsheba told me eagerly, and when she had done so, I understood much.

  About Uriah I had been twice wrong. Uriah was neither poor, nor ungenerous—but he was ambitious. The bangle had been a token, of a sort. But not as I had dreamed; out of my own need, I had spun tales as if I were David. The truth was that Uriah had staked all on one throw.

  “When he heard that King David needed men, he thought he could do better here, in Jerusalem. But Uriah has always been very clever—” Bathsheba sounded proud, yet puzzled; she was not clever, only good. “He said that if he brought men and arms of his own he would rise quickly, and then we would be rich and I would have everything I wanted. So he took my dowry-gold and gave me that in token.” She pointed at my wrist. “He said he would change it for true gold and rock-crystal when he made his fortune with the king.”

  “And did Uriah say when that might be?” I was careful to speak light, and smile. So Uriah would make his fortune with Bathsheba’s dowry-gold; with what was to be hers and her daughter’s after her! Yes, and if Uriah made only bones upon a battlefield, his widow would have nothing but the gown she stood in.

  “I do not know. Uriah said I must be good and patient, and wait. But we have been married almost a year, now.”

  She did not think to ask me if I would speak for Uriah to the king. Bathsheba was too innocent for that, and still young enough to think merit counted for all in the king’s court.

  “A year! Then I am sure Uriah’s fortune will be made soon,” I said, and smiled again. I rose to my feet. “The sun is setting, and so I must let you go.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said Bathsheba. She jumped up quickly, and bowed. “It has been a great—”

  I held up my hand and shook my head. Bathsheba blushed, and smiled, and finished shyly, “You have been very kind, Michal.”

  “You are easy to be kind to, Bathsheba. Will you come again, to keep me company?”

  “Oh, yes!” Bathsheba’s eyes glowed in the slanting evening light. “And—perhaps—if the queen would honor me—if you would care to visit my house—but it is not what you are accustomed to, and—”

  “Accustomed to!” I laughed, and could not stop until I saw Bathsheba was about to cry, poor girl. Then I put my arms around her. “Do you think I was born with a crown upon my head and gems upon my feet? My father was a farmer first and a king next, and I have lived all my life in farmer’s houses. I will visit you if I may, and gladly, and will only hope you will not be too grand for me!”

  I did not know if David would let me go outside the palace walls; I would not think of that now. I kissed Bathsheba’s cheek before she went away. When she had gone my rooms were empty; lifeless. Even my women seemed false, like dolls.

  “Bring me a mirror,” I said. And when my mirror was brought, I held the ivory handle in my hand and stared for long minutes into the polished silver. Of all the grief and pain and anger I suffered, I saw nothing yet. And I saw again
myself mirrored in Bathsheba’s wide eyes. The queen in all her glory. I wondered what Zhurleen had seen, when she had looked into my face. I wondered what Phaltiel would see, if he looked upon me now.

  After a moment, I set the mirror aside. I turned, and looked at my maids. I did not even know all their names. It had not seemed important.

  “You,” I said to the nearest. I had to point at her; I did not know her, although she had served me many months. For the first time I felt shame. It was not their fault I was here. “What is your name?”

  “Narkis, O Queen.” Narkis looked wary, as if she feared I might strike out, as if I were a beast only half-tame.

  “Narkis.” I studied her, matching name to face to know again. She had a closed face; watchful. “I wish to send Bathsheba a jug of wine—good wine, well seasoned. See to it.”

  “Now, O Queen?” Narkis had testing eyes. She would be cautious before she was proud.

  “Yes,” I said, and smiled at her. “Do it now, Narkis. And you, Chuldah—”

  There was such a stone in my throat I could hardly say the words; Chuldah watched me, waiting. That one, I thought. That one must go. I will not have her serve me.

  “Yes, O Queen?” Chuldah sounded like a mother impatient with a backward child.

  I swallowed, hard, and spoke. “Go,” I said. “Go and tell King David that Queen Michal would speak with him. Tell him—tell the king there is a favor that his queen would ask.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “And David sent and inquired after the woman.”

  —II SAMUEL 11:3

  I do not think that anything else I ever did pleased David as much as did that message. He did not come to me himself, or send for me, which was all I had asked or expected. But then, David was always one to make a great show even of small things. So now he sent a servant to me to say that whatsoever I desired, that I should be granted, even unto half his kingdom.

  The man knelt at my feet before the gateway to my own courtyard and spoke David’s words loud and clear, a clanging bell that all must heed. Women came to their own gates to listen, and to look sharp at me.

  A tiny harp upon a chain hung about the man’s neck. King David’s badge. A little thing of carved and gilded wood, to remind all men of how King David had been raised up from lowliness. I looked at the gilded token, not at the man’s face.

  “That is good of the king, and generous,” I said. “But it is only a small thing I would ask. Something between a wife and husband only. Thank the king, and tell him I—tell him that his queen asks him to come to her.”

  The man bowed his head low over his knee and went away again, obedient to my command. I turned slowly and walked back through the gate of ebony and ivory that guarded my courtyard. I did not look around to see which women had watched, and which had whispered. It did not matter; they all would know David’s message and my answer by day’s end. It was what David had intended, after all.

  “Close the gate,” I said, and walked on, into my rooms, to prepare myself for David’s coming.

  “A captain! Uriah is to be a captain in the king’s host—captain of full fifty men! He sent me word, and this!” Bathsheba held out her left hand; silver chains circled her wrist. Then she looked at me, and blushed, and pulled back her hand. “But I am foolish—Uriah always calls me so—this bracelet is nothing, only—”

  “Only a sign of your husband’s regard, which makes dross gold,” I said, and smiled at her. I did not deny that she was foolish, for she was. But there are far worse faults than loving folly. And I thought Uriah might have sent his wife a finer gift than a few silver chains.

  “Uriah was right,” she went on, excited as if it were her wedding day. “The king himself must have seen him fight—or perhaps Joab did, he commands the host, you know—”

  “Yes, I know.” I did not check her, only listened, smiling, as she chattered on. While she talked, I absently whirled my ivory spindle, drawing thread I knew I would never use. Still, I found the motion soothing; I had spun a league’s length since Phaltiel’s death.

  I had known Bathsheba less than a month, and already she was dear to me. I watched her now, content in her happiness. Never would it occur to Bathsheba that my interest, and not Uriah’s merit, had earned her husband this honor. David had kept his word. I wondered, as I idly spun, what else I might ask, and be granted.

  It took so little to please Bathsheba that I would do much for her. To come to the palace, to walk through its tiled halls and fragrant gardens, to run my jewels through her plump fingers as if gems were precious water—this was joy to her, and Bathsheba made no pretense that it was not. She walked into my life all wide-eyed and trusting, like a kitten new-come into a house.

  A maidservant paused in the doorway, waiting. I shook my head, and the maid went away again. My servants walked meeker now that I watched their steps.

  Bathsheba had not even noticed the maid; she was too proud of Uriah and what he had achieved. “And the king—King David himself, Michal!—spoke to Uriah, and told him he had heard great things of him. The king himself!”

  David had gone to the army in the field soon after I had asked my favor of him; he had not been back to Jerusalem since. I was glad of it. If David stayed always with his army, it would please me well. Then I would not have to face him, and see him smile at me, and know he thought that he had won.

  “Well,” I said, when at last Bathsheba stopped to take a sip of cooled wine, “that is great news indeed.”

  “Oh, you are laughing at me now. But yes, it is great news. Now—”

  “Now you shall have everything you were promised,” I said, and laid aside my spindle and thread. “Come, and I will show you some new cloth I have—it is from a land far to the east, and never have I seen anything like it—it is like woven firelight. No, leave the spindle as it lies—I prefer tangles to be of my own making!” And I laughed as I said it; it was only a jest, and a small one. I forgot the words as soon as they were spoken. I did not know that our thread was already knotted past unraveling.

  The summer that I first saw Bathsheba sitting on her housetop King David’s army was besieging Rabbah, chief city of the Ammonites. Another war—hardly worth a mention at the well. Bathsheba and I spoke of it only when we spoke of her husband Uriah, which was not often. He rarely sent her messages, and she seemed content enough without him.

  “Oh, he is a good enough man, I suppose, Micha!—but—”

  “But not what you dreamed of as a maiden in your father’s house?”

  She shook her head. “I know he is a good man, but he never talks of love, only of war, and of the future. Always it is wait, and later it will be better, and then I shall have fine gowns and maids to wait upon me. But that is not what I want—well, of course it would be very pleasant to have such things too. But he is always away, always fighting—and of course he always wins, but—” She stopped, and for a moment she would not look up at me.

  But suppose he does not? Suppose he is injured, suppose he dies? That was what Bathsheba feared, and would not say. Yes, I thought, and Uriah has spent the gold that was hers, gold meant to keep her all the days after her husband was dead. And she does not even think of that!

  And then a thought flashed through my mind like crystal through water. You are queen, Michal. If Uriah falls in battle, take Bathsheba into your own household. Does not David always swear he will give whatsoever you ask?The thought flared swift and bright; it startled me.

  At last Bathsheba looked up, and her eyes were very bright. And what she said was, “But why can he never speak to me of love?”

  “I do not know.” To tell truth, I was still turning that new thought over in my mind, judging its merit as I would judge a melon in the market. “Who can say why men act as they do?”

  Then she looked at me, full of hope. “Perhaps you can tell me what I should do, to make Uriah love me. Everyone says that King David kisses the dust beneath your sandals. I have heard the songs about him and you.” She said this l
ast almost in a whisper, as if the songs were secrets that I might not have heard.

  “Everyone is wrong,” I said. “That is not what life is like, Bathsheba. And from all you have said, Uriah loves you well enough. Hot love makes cold marriage, in the end. Uriah is kind to you, is he not?” At least, from all I had heard, Uriah was not cruel—I thought it would be hard to be cruel to Bathsheba.

  “Oh, yes, he is kind enough. But he is so dull.” Bathsheba sighed and her mouth drooped, and I laughed. Bathsheba was so young—no older than I had been when I first had married David.

  “Easy for you to laugh,” she said, hurt. “You, who are married to King David!”

  “Yes,” I said. “You are right—that is nothing to laugh at.”

  She looked at me with eyes like a startled dove. She was sweet as spring-water; bitterness frightened her. So I smiled, and then we talked of other things. I had learned long ago that a kind heart is better than a clever tongue.

  Bathsheba eased my heart more than she knew, or would have believed. She liked to hear palace-talk and bright tales—well, I told her what I could, and one day I spoke of Zhurleen. A Philistine concubine, I said, liking to see Bathsheba’s eyes grow round and eager.

  “A clever woman who was kind to me when—when I was new-come to Jerusalem. She gave me much wise advice.” It was not Zhurleen’s fault that I had been too frightened and angry to heed her. Yes, and too foolish as well.

  “A Philistine concubine—oh, Michal—what was she like? I—I have never seen one,” Bathsheba confided, as if such lack were a shame to her.

  “All paint and silver bells—and she did not wear her hair braided, but in long curls falling down her back, like this.” I traced a ringlet down the air, spiral upon spiral. “And she dyed her hair with henna leaves so that it was red as pomegranate seeds, and when she walked her curls danced like snakes.”