Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen

by Edghill, India

  She hung her head. “I—”

  “Tell me.”

  “I told him that the king would not like it, if he took me.” Bathsheba whispered so low I could hardly hear her. “Oh, Michal—I could not lie with Uriah, loving the king. I knew the king could not truly mean to ask it of me. Please forgive me—I do not know why you are so good to me, when I have betrayed you so—”

  No, I thought. No, he cannot mean to take Bathsheba from me too.

  Bathsheba flung herself to her knees and went on begging my pardon; I was too frightened to pay her any heed. I wanted to shake Bathsheba, to slap her, to hurt her to ease my own sick fear.

  At last I could speak again. “Bathsheba.” I touched her hair. “Do not cry anymore, you will make yourself ill. Now be silent, and let me think.”

  But there was only one answer, and I knew it. Whether he wished to or no, David must now take Bathsheba into his house. It was the only thing that would save her. Somehow I must make David do so, whatever cruel game he played. I cared nothing for what it might cost David.

  I did not know what it was to cost me.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Set ye Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle … that he may be smitten, and die.”

  —II Samuel 11:15

  If my rooms were a queen’s, David’s were twice a king’s. David liked to think himself a lion, strong and bold; in his rooms wooden lions guarded doorways, painted lions prowled walls. Even his bed had a lion’s paws, gold-painted. Ivory claws were set into the painted wood. Many men would be diminished by such rooms; David outshone them—so men said.

  I went to David as I was, my gown still blotched dark with Bathsheba’s tears. David was having his beard trimmed and curled, as if he were a Philistine prince. When he saw me, David sent the barber away to wait in the outer room.

  “So you have come to me, Michal. Is this another private matter?” And then he smiled, and I thought, He knows already why I have come.

  But I made myself smile back, as if it were all a fine jest, and told David what Bathsheba had confessed. That she had sent Uriah away.

  “I am sorry, Michat—but if the woman is such a fool as to refuse her own husband when she is in such a case, what can I do?” David stroked his new-curled beard, and smiled again—the smile of a man who has won.

  “You are the king. Surely you have the power to save one woman whose only fault is that she loved you too well? Take her from her husband into your own house—as you promised her you would. You have done as much before, after all.”

  “It is not so simple, Michal. I need Uriah, and his men—and my other foreign warriors too. It is not an easy thing to have foreigners in my army—you know the priests do not like it—”

  I cared nothing for all that. “Surely Yahweh smiles upon you, O King, and the priests know it.”

  David smiled again. “It means much to me to hear you say that. But as for Uriah’s wife—”

  “Bathsheba,” I said, as if he had forgotten. David had forgotten nothing. He toyed with me as a sated lion might toy with a wounded deer. A blow of the lion’s paw, and all would be over. But while the deer lived and struggled, the lion was amused.

  “If I take Uriah’s wife, my warriors will say ‘King David does as he pleases, and has no care for us or his words to us.’”

  “You knew that when you went to Bathsheba.”

  “I did not know I would get her with child,” David said. “I did not know she would refuse her husband after.” He paused, and smiled, and said, “I did not know the woman was such a fool, Michal. Did you?”

  I could not answer.

  “But you are not a fool, Michal—I have always known that. Now you will ask what it is men will say when Bathsheba is accused as an adulteress, and names me. But you know what they will say, because you are not a fool. They will say she was an unchaste wife. They will say that a woman who opened her arms so freely to me would do as much for any man.”

  It was the same beautiful voice that sang his lying songs. It rang in my ears as if I had struck my head, leaving me sick and dizzy.

  “I am king, Michal. And I am not like Saul—I will not let the priests use me for their own ends. Yahweh loves me, not the priests. No man will use the Law against me. Do you remember what I once told you, when first you came back to me?”

  I remembered. “The king is the Law. But David, I care nothing for that—do as you please with the priests! I care only for Bathsheba.”

  I sank down upon my knees and clutched at his hands. “David, you have always sworn before Yahweh that you would grant whatever I asked. You know I have asked for little, when I could have asked for much.” Little, and that little to please Bathsheba. But now I knew the asking had spread my heart open before David’s eyes. “Now I ask you to save Bathsheba. I beg of you, David.”

  “And if I do not? You ask much of me, Michal.”

  I would have risen, then, but he turned his hands to press down on mine. I stayed on my knees before him; I looked up, and when I spoke I hardly knew my own voice.

  “If you do not, I will stand before your throne and tell all men what you have done, and I will charge you before the priests and the prophet Nathan. If David’s own queen tells the same tale as Bathsheba—well, it is such a tale as men are always happy to believe.”

  “More mad ravings from my poor queen?”

  “Are all the women in Jerusalem mad, that they tell the same tale? Call me mad if you like, I do not care. You will have to kill me to keep me silent.”

  “Speak then—but Bathsheba is still guilty, and still will die. That will not change.”

  “I beg of you, David. See, I will kiss your feet and beg, if it will please you. Give me Bathsheba’s life. You are the king—surely it can be done, if you will it! There must be a way.”

  David smiled, then; he drew me to my feet. “Oh, yes, Michal. There is a way. A royal way. It is rough and harsh, and paved with stones like blades to cut you. But it will save Bathsheba, if that is your choice.”

  I was shaking so I could barely stand, or speak. “I will take it,” I said. “Anything, if it will save Bathsheba.”

  Again David smiled. His face was beautiful as an idol’s face is beautiful, a king’s image formed from flesh and blood. He slid his arm about my shoulders and led me to the window that overlooked the city and the rich hills beyond.

  “Look to the east, Michal. That is where Rabbah lies, and the fighting there is hot. Battles are hard, the warrior’s life an uncertain thing, easy to lose as a lamb in the mountains. And if a king’s brave soldier should chance to die in the king’s service, would it not be a worthy act to cherish his grieving widow, for his sake?”

  “Yes.” My mouth was dry as summer dust. “That would be an act worthy of a king.”

  “Uriah is a valiant captain. Such men do not often live to see their son’s sons on their knee. They seek the forefront of the fighting, for honor and glory’s sake. A word sent to Joab would ensure Uriah’s destiny—and Bathsheba’s.”

  The snare had been set before my feet, the trap-string ready to my hand. I had only to choose to take it up. An act worthy of a king—or a queen.

  This was what David had planned for me; this was why he had gone to Bathsheba and ensured she would reject her husband. But no one could say he had told Bathsheba to deny Uriah. No one could say that.

  David had not spoken to Bathsheba of denial. Only of love. “—he swore he could not bear to think of me with another—” And Bathsheba had faced Uriah with David’s lying kisses still sweet upon her lips.

  This was what David had planned since I had first gone to him and told him that Bathsheba was with child. Each step since that day had led here, to this choice.

  I knew I held Bathsheba’s life within my hands. Sweet, foolish, trusting Bathsheba—and her child. David’s child, for whom David cared less than nothing. Against those two lives I must weigh Uriah’s.

  I had never seen Uriah. I knew of him only as a good eno
ugh man, an ambitious man. I did not know Uriah … .

  “Well, Michal? Shall I send to Joab? Uriah returns today to Rabbah—he will be honored to carry the king’s letters to his war-chief.” David was all smiles and honey, now. His arm coiled heavy about my shoulders. I had thought I hated him before; now I knew that hate had still been only a child’s thing, next to this.

  I thought of Uriah, and of Phaltiel. I thought of Bathsheba naked to sharp stones.

  “Yes,” I said. I closed my eyes and turned away from the open window. “Send word to Joab.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “And Nathan said to David, Thou art the man.”

  —II Samuel 12:7

  That night I lay awake; through my window I watched the sky grow dark and darker still, and then pale again, until it was dawn at last. I told over all that had happened since first David watched Bathsheba bathing in the sunlight. Now I saw how, and where, David had caught life’s thread into his own hands, twisting events into a knot he alone could undo. That night I did not wonder why he had done it. I thought only of David, and of what he had made me do, to save Bathsheba.

  Time is long, and women weak, and I might have come to forgive even Phaltiel’s death, or forget. But now David had forced me to be no better than he, to buy Bathsheba’s life at the price of a man’s death.

  For that, I never forgave him.

  The next seven days were hard to bear. I kept Bathsheba with me as much as I could, and tried to reassure her while telling neither truth nor lies. “Do not weep, all will be well. Do not weep, the king has promised to come and see you today—tomorrow—soon.”

  I tried to think only of Bathsheba; I did not want to think of Uriah. An ambitious man, but good enough to his wife, in his way—no, I would not think of Uriah. Only of Bathsheba, and of the child.

  David did not come to see Bathsheba—“He told me it would not be wise, just now. He said you are to wait, to be patient. You must trust him, Bathsheba. There is still time enough.”

  And so I soothed and cozened and tried not to think of the message that had gone out to Joab. Soon word must come of Uriah’s death—unless David had tricked me once again. That thought tormented me; I could barely eat or sleep; my face grew pale and my eyes bruised with fear. Then I would cling to Bathsheba, and say only that I was weary, that I was ill. Then she would try to comfort me.

  But Bathsheba could not ease my mind or heart; she could not banish my terrors. Bathsheba did not know what I knew, or what I feared. And I loved her too well to wish her ever to understand.

  David brought me the news of Uriah’s death himself: a gift set before his queen. David liked to be the bestower of gifts.

  Bathsheba was with me, helping me sort my bracelets; I hoped the task would keep her hands busy for a time. It was the sort of work that pleased her, after all. But it was growing harder to find such tasks. “Wait”, I had said—but soon Bathsheba could not wait. She was past two months gone with child—

  I handed her a pair of bracelets all glitter and flash; gold and pure rock-crystal. “Here,” I said. “These are for you, to show how I love you.” My voice sounded strange, even to my own ears; even to Bathsheba’s.

  “Michal?” She did not take the bracelets; she touched my cheek. “Are you ill again? Shall I call for Narkis?”

  I shook my head, and tried to think of a pretty lie—and then I saw David.

  He stood tall in the doorway, waiting for us to see and wonder at him. Beyond him I could see my maids stretching their eyes, all admiration for the great king. Bathsheba gasped; her cheeks flushed bright dawn-roses. She took a step toward David, then stopped.

  I did not move. “We are honored,” I said, and still my voice was not my own. “How can we make the king welcome here?”

  “I come not for honor, but for duty,” David said, and went to stand before Bathsheba. “I bring sad tidings to Uriah’s wife.”

  Bathsheba stared up at him; I saw that she trembled. I knew it was with love of King David. “Sad tidings?” she said, puzzled. “I—I do not understand, my lord king.”

  David took her hands. I knew how David saw it: he was a shepherd gentling a timid lamb. I knew how Bathsheba saw it: the king loved her still.

  “There has been a great battle at Rabbah—we have won the city, but we have lost many good men.” David sighed, bowed down by kingly grief. “War is hard, but your husband died as a man.

  “Uriah is dead?” Bathsheba only sounded surprised; then her eyes widened. “Dead? Oh, no, no!” And then she burst into tears, weeping for Uriah as if she had loved him well.

  “Do not weep so,” said David quickly. “Uriah was a fine man, a true warrior—and I have vowed to care for my soldier’s families as if they were my own. So the king will care for you, Bathsheba—you have his word on it.”

  Then David set Bathsheba aside to weep or not, as she chose, and came to me. “Does that please you, my gracious queen? Shall I take this woman into my house, and many her?”

  “That is more than you promised.” My mouth was dry, my face hot. Words came hard. “Yes, that pleases me. I am fond of Uriah’s wife.”

  “That is good hearing,” David said. “I would have my women dwell together in peace under my roof. Come to me tonight, my love, and we will share joy between us.” And he kissed me upon the mouth.

  Then he went away again, with only a pat upon her shoulder for Bathsheba, as if she were a puppy. I took her into my arms and let her weep upon my breast. Nor did I try to stop her and make her dry her eyes. She had much to grieve over; more than she knew.

  But Uriah was dead and David would marry Bathsheba. And David and Bathsheba’s child would come early into the world, and that was all anyone could ever openly say. Bathsheba was safe; I did not wish to know more.

  I did not wish to know if the blow that killed Uriah came from before him—or from behind.

  So David wept over the loss of his brave captain Uriah, and took Uriah’s widow into his own house, and married her. See what care the king takes for his people; a shepherd indeed. Even the meekest lies safe under the king’s hand. That was what David showed the world.

  Of course there was talk; Narkis brought me news from well and market. But no one spoke against him. What would have been scandal in any other man became virtue in David the king.

  The women whispered at the well. Of course the Lady Bathsheba’s child is the king’s, what can you expect from a hill-girl, and her husband gone. Of course she dropped her veil for the king’s eyes—ah, if the king would only cast his eyes upon me—

  Yes, that was what was whispered among the women.

  The men whispered too. Look at our King David! Still a lusty man, for all he’s a great king. Another child, too! Ah, that I were king, and could do as well.

  Envy, and pride. That was all. Perhaps if Uriah had not been a foreigner, a Hittite, there would have been blame, even for King David. But there was not. No one thought of Uriah, save me.

  The siege at Rabbah ended; a great victory at last. Once more David’s star shone bright, and people forgot what the city of Rabbah had cost in men and blood.

  No one fretted over the loss of one Hittite captain. No one questioned what the king chose to do.

  No one save the prophet Nathan.

  Then I thought only of Bathsheba, and of myself. And so I did not wonder why Nathan chose to rant at David over this sin when he had ignored so many others. In truth, I did not care; I thought Nathan a blind fool. He had done nothing when I had become a sudden widow, nothing when I had told him plain that David had killed my husband. I knew Nathan would hear no word against David.

  And that was not strange. David had long bowed humble before Nathan, and given the prophet all honor. Nathan, like so many others, was loyal to the David he saw.

  But now Nathan spoke out and chastised David, and harshly too. I heard it all, and Bathsheba with me, and did not need to rely on rumor for Nathan’s words.

  Bathsheba had wished to see David act the k
ing in his court; to please her I had taken her and shown her a king’s secret—“And a queen’s,” I said, and smiled.

  The secret was a small dark room set deep into the wall behind the throne; here one might stand and spy upon the daylight court. From the court below, one saw only the glazed garden of lilies and reeds and lotus-flowers behind the king’s throne. From where Bathsheba and I stood, all that went on before that throne could be seen and heard through cunning lattice-work.

  Bathsheba was delighted with the secret room, of course. “Oh, how clever!” she breathed, and touched the screen-work with cautious fingers. “And no one knows we are here?”

  “No one. See, I have set cushions for us so we may sit in comfort—and I warn you, Bathsheba, court business is long and dull. You must tell me when you grow bored.”

  “How could I be bored when I watch the king?” Then Bathsheba frowned in thought. “But Michal, who sits here? Not the king—he is there—” She pointed; thin streams of light pressing through the lattice danced splashes of gold and silver over her wide bracelets.

  “Why, no one—save those who dally here with a sweetheart, or seek to evade a task. David heard of an eastern king with such a spy-room as this, and so he must have one as well. But of what use it is to the king, I do not know. Nothing said in the court can be private—only see how many men stand there to listen.”

  “And—and I suppose the workmen all know it is here, unless they worked blindfolded!” Bathsheba laughed, and put a guilty hand to her mouth.

  “Well, this room is not a great secret.” I smiled, pleased to see her happy, which she often was not. Oh, she tried to hide her pain, but I had once suffered from her illness, and so what she might conceal from others was plain enough to my eyes. Bathsheba was still sick with love for David; she could not yet believe that David’s love was gone. Had he not married her, after all—and yet he never came to her, or saw her unless she was with me—Oh, yes, I knew what Bathsheba suffered.