So David smiled upon Amnon and Tamar, and encouraged the girl to run to her brother. “Go—greet our conquering hero. A boy needs to know he has done well in his first campaigns. Praise him, and tell him I am pleased.”
Yes, David smiled upon Amnon and Tamar—then. And where King David smiled, so did all his household. We all watched, and spoke of the girl’s sweet nature and her brother’s kindness, and were blind. Yes, even I.
I think even Amnon himself was blind at first; she was his father’s daughter, after all. And he had known her since she was new-born, and he a boy of six. Oh, he was fond enough, but careless, as a man might be with a child.
But Tamar was a child no longer; she had put on her veil, and thought herself a woman. She had round breasts and soft dark doe’s eyes, and she was as full of warm love as a ripe pomegranate of seeds. And she was only his half-sister, when all was said.
I counted myself clever, and even I did not see how it truly was between Tamar and Amnon. Not until the day that I came upon them in my garden, hidden away behind the lilies that banked the pool, did I see clearly. And then I saw too much, and too little.
That day I had gone with Bathsheba into the upper town, as I sometimes did, to see the wares a new merchant offered David’s court. Many merchants passed through Jerusalem, now; this one brought small treasures from a land far to the east: silver boxes shaped like pomegranates, scarves embroidered with sky-bright feathers, sandalwood combs to scent the hair. Veils woven of gold and silver. Gems that flashed cat’s-eyes.
The merchant’s wares were strange and fine enough for any queen. But the day was hot, and I had lain half the night awake, listening to David tell what he would do now that the sea-cities of Philistia were open to him, and the price of Philistine iron was something less than blood. And I had seen gold and silver and gems before. So I smiled upon the merchant and told Bathsheba I was tired, and would leave her to make purchases for me.
“For you always know what pleases me. And do not forget to buy for yourself as well. King David can afford to be generous.” And I kissed Bathsheba, and went back to the king’s palace, and to the queen’s courtyard.
And to my garden. And there I found Amnon, and Tamar. Together, among the lilies by the little pool.
They lay close-pressed as if bound together; Tamar’s braids chained Amnon with living copper, fire-hot in the sun. They did not hear me. They would not have heard the king’s guard in full armor. They were beautiful against the lilies.
I watched them as they kissed. It was not a sister’s lips that Tamar offered Amnon. And it was not a brother’s kiss that he gave her in return. It was not a brother’s hands that stroked her yielding body.
I clapped my hands together and called out Tamar’s name, making my voice sharp and hard. They fell apart and struggled to their feet; Tamar’s long braids tangled in her brother’s bracelets, trapping them together. Amnon would have freed them, but Tamar gripped him hard, staring at me with eyes still soft from passion. I saw white on his arm, framing her clinging fingers.
For a moment we all stood there, frozen in the sunlight like bees in amber. Then I spoke as I must. “Is this how you care for your sister, Prince Amnon? This is not well done.”
Amnon bowed his head. “I know, Queen Michal.” Amnon’s voice was steady, strong as the sun-hot stones of the garden wall behind him. “I am sorry; I thought we would be gone before you returned. We came only to talk where we might be truly alone. A quiet place is hard to find in the king’s house.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“And then—we did not know, until we kissed. And then—well, you saw.”
Tamar’s face was hot and red as hearth-coals. She stared at me, and bit her lip hard, but did not speak. I thought she was wise to keep silent; I remembered the follies I had spoken, when I was as young as she.
“Yes, I saw. You have mistaken a brother’s—a sister’s—fondness for more. I had heard that it happens; such lust will pass, if you do not trespass again. So I will say nothing, and forgive the harm you have done my lilies.”
“No! It is not like that!” Tamar’s voice trembled. “Oh, please—” She did not say what she pled for; perhaps she did not know herself.
Amnon put his hand over Tamar’s and gently urged her fingers from his flesh. Then his hands worked softly, unweaving Tamar’s braid from his golden bracelet. “It is all right, sister. There is nothing to fear.”
“Not from me.” I could not be cruel to them; they were so young. “But Prince Amnon, is this wise?”
“No,” Amnon said. “It is not wise. But we share one heart, Tamar and I.” He looked straight into my eyes. His own were hero’s eyes; eyes to obey
“And now?” I asked.
Amnon looked down at his little sister and smiled. “Well, Tamar?”
She blushed poppy-bright. “I—it is not for me to say.”
“Then I will.” Amnon put his arm about her shoulders and hugged her to him. “I will ask the king for her; she will be my wife. I would never dishonor my sister.”
“Oh, Amnon!” Tamar melted against him, molded to him. Yes, she was his, heart and blood.
Amnon smiled at her once more; a man’s smile for the woman he finds most fair under all the sky My own heart ached; a small pang only, as an old wound might pain an aging warrior.
“I wish you well,” I said, and smiled, and the little pain was gone again.
“The queen is kind.” Amnon caught up Tamar’s hand in his; their fingers twined together, a lover’s knot to flesh. “Come, beloved—we have trespassed in the queen’s garden long enough.”
“Yes—the queen is kind—I am sorry—” Tamar stammered, and blushed, and Amnon drew her away.
I laughed, and watched them go, walking slowly down the path to my garden gate. Tamar pressed close against Amnon, as if she could no longer walk alone. The sun struck flame and fire from their shining hair.
When they were gone, I looked at the lily-bed. The stems were crushed and flat to the ground where Tamar and Amnon had lain twined together. Fairer than lilies.
And with all their future spread like a new-woven carpet before their feet. There was no good reason Amnon might not have Tamar; they shared only a father, after all. In other lands royal brothers and sisters wed as a matter of course.
And for that reason, if for no other, I knew that David would smile upon them, and bless their union. What other kings possess, that too must King David have.
I smiled again, and bent to see what I might save, out of all my ruined lilies.
The next morning I spoke to my maid Narkis as she combed my hair. “Prince Amnon and Princess Tamar—tell me what men say of them.”
“Nothing, until yesterday.” Narkis combed on, steady; in her skilled hands the ivory comb never caught on tangles, never pulled too sharp.
“And then?”
“And then Prince Amnon went to King David and asked if he might wed his sister the Princess Tamar.”
Well, and why should he not? “And King David said?”
“The king laughed, and said the princess was too young to think of marriage yet.”
“She is near fourteen.”
“So Prince Amnon said.”
“And the king answered?”
“That there was time and to spare to think of futures, and that he would not be tormented by his own children.” Narkis set aside the comb and rubbed my hair with a perfumed cloth, long stroke on stroke, to make it shine. “Prince Absalom too was there.”
“Did he too speak?”
Narkis finished polishing my hair and gathered up the comb again. She lifted my lily-scented hair. “He did. Will the queen have two braids upon each side, or three?”
“Three, and thread the new coral beads upon them. And Prince Absalom spoke of?”
Narkis wove coral and hair together. “A sister who loves too free. A brother who desires too much.”
I did not think that Absalom cared one drop of sweat if Tamar lay
with Amnon. As for desires—
“Did Prince Absalom say more?”
“No, for he spoke in heat and anger, and King David would not hear him. The king said that it was only right a sister love her brothers. And that all his children should love one another and bring him peace and joy.”
Narkis held my silver mirror up before my face. “Is the queen pleased with her servant’s handiwork?”
Triple braids looped back from my face, smooth and rich with carven coral. “Yes, the queen is pleased. What else?”
Narkis laid the mirror down. “Prince Amnon begged again that the king grant what he asked. And Prince Absalom swore his brother would never wed Princess Tamar. What earrings will the queen wear today?”
“Those the Lady Bathsheba gave me at harvest—the ones shaped like wheat-sheaves. And when Prince Absalom had spoken?”
“The king said that Prince Absalom was not yet king, and that only the king might say who a prince or princess should wed.” Narkis fastened the circles of golden wheat into my ears. “And then the king said that who was he to deny what Yahweh put into a man’s heart, or a maid’s?”
“And then King David told Prince Amnon ‘perhaps’.” It was not a question; I heard it all as clear as if I had stood there between king and princes. Set Amnon in one balance, and Absalom in another; weigh them against each other. Now smile upon Amnon, now upon Absalom. Perhaps, and if and maybe.
‘You are not yet king, Absalom—’ And Absalom would think that he someday would be.
‘Who can deny love, Amnon—?’ And Amnon would think that Tamar would be his to cherish always.
And then it would be, later, ‘Did I say so?’ and a smile.
Oh, yes, I heard it all clear. And I heard another thing, too, an echo from long ago, when I was still a girl in my father’s house. An echo ringing now in David’s words like the tolling of a faraway bell. ‘Who is king here, you or I?’
Almost I forgot Narkis was there, until she murmured “The queen is wise. Yes, the king said ‘perhaps’.”
The seeds of disaster were sown; Absalom tended them until they were ripe for harvest.
For David’s kingdom was only two kings old. In most lands, the oldest son living would follow his father on the throne; here, no one yet knew how the power would pass from one hand to the next. Had David been the son of King Saul?
And so Absalom saw Amnon’s love as ambition. For Amnon was the eldest son; wed to Tamar, Amnon’s claim to David’s crown would be better than any other’s.
Better than Absalom’s.
It did not rest there, of course. Absalom would not let it, though David had warned him in plain words: peace and love in David’s house. Absalom did not heed.
“Everyone heard them, Michal—quarreling in the banquet hall, and before the king’s guests.” Bathsheba was pink with anger; she still cherished David’s image in her heart, and would not see him hurt.
“Yes, I know. Six others have been before you with the tale.”
An ugly tale. Absalom had challenged Amnon’s choice of seat, close by the king, demanding he relinquish his place to Absalom. King David had not chided Absalom, but only turned away, so that he need not see. It was Amnon who acted well; he kept his temper leashed, and gave soft words for harsh.
So I added, “But you cannot say they quarreled, Bathsheba. It takes two to quarrel.”
She smiled at that. “Yes, and Amnon will not. Oh, he is such a fine boy—well, he is a man now—they grow so fast! But—Oh, why is Absalom the king’s favorite son? Amnon is worth forty of him!”
“The gatekeeper’s dog is worth forty of Absalom.” I did not wonder that Absalom was the favored child; David always swore Absalom was himself when young.
“And Amnon would be a fine king, like his father—” Bathsheba stopped, and reddened. “I know that does not sound well, Michal—but—but King David—”
“Is not a god. All men die, even kings. We all think of the future, if we are wise. Is it disloyal to think of the kingdom’s welfare?”
Yes, Amnon would be a fine king—but Amnon did not care whether he became king or not.
And Absalom cared too much.
So there was no open quarrel then, but Absalom was bitter against his brother, and all knew it. Amnon tried to make peace, but Absalom turned his face from Amnon, and so at last Amnon abandoned the useless effort.
For Absalom thought himself injured, and he himself kept his wound open and sore. And Amnon was a young man new in love. There were better ways for Amnon to pass the time than in striving to please Absalom.
And there were better ways for Absalom to pass the time than in quarreling with his brother. While Amnon walked with Tamar among the palace gardens, Absalom walked with King David among the palace halls. While Amnon played love-tunes to Tamar upon his harp, Absalom poured venom into David’s ear.
Behind David’s throne, Amnon kissed Tamar in the secret room that was no secret.
And beside David’s throne, Absalom warned of a prince who would be king.
But for a time there was peace again in David’s house. An uneasy peace, fragile as cobweb.
A peace that could not last.
“The king quarreled with his sons today.” Narkis freed my hair from its woven and jeweled braids. She would comb it smooth before braiding it down my back against the night.
“That is no new thing.” I reached up and ran my hands through my loosened hair. “What have you heard?”
“That Prince Absalom spent all the day with King David.”
“That too is no new thing.” I sat quiet under Narkis skilled hands.
“That Prince Amnon again asked the king for the Princess Tamar.” Narkis set the comb aside and began plaiting my hair. “And that the king did not wish to hear him, but Prince Amnon would speak.”
“And? Not so tight; my head aches tonight.”
“I will tell Saya to bring cool water to bathe your face. Prince Amnon said that he had waited a month, and that King David must answer. Prince Amnon said, ‘Your daughter Tamar is fourteen—is she never to be a wife?’ And Prince Absalom laughed, and said, ‘Not yours, brother!’”
Narkis knotted gilded leather about the braid’s end. “Is it as the queen would have it now?”
“Yes, that will do. And the king said?”
“That Prince Absalom held himself too high. That Prince Amnon must not speak of this again. That Princess Tamar would wed where her father bid. And then the king said, ‘Do you think, my sons, that you are cleverer than I?’”
After that, Amnon left the king’s house and took a house for his own, in the city beyond the kings wall. I was not surprised, though David seemed to be, and did not like it.
“The boy thinks himself too fine to live in his father’s house. But he will have his way, and I am only his father; what can I do?” So David said, and smiled. But I knew David; he was not pleased.
Now Amnon had his own house; master under his own roof. Amnon had no wife, and so Tamar went often to her brother, to keep his house in order for him. At first she went only by day. Then she went by night as well—and stayed.
It was no secret; too many knew, and told. I called Tamar to me, once, to warn her. “Be careful,” I told her. “They say you go too often to Amnon’s house—and not as a sister. Oh, do not stare at me cow-eyed, child—once I loved as hot and hard as you. And do not stammer lies at me.”
Tamar stood there silent; under my hand her skin was hot as sand at noonday. Her eyes were oil-bright.
“Listen to me, Tamar. King David has forbidden your marriage to Amnon—now. So wait; be patient.”
“But I am fourteen now, Queen Michal!”
“Yes, I know. But do as I say, Tamar. Wait. I know the king, and his mind will change with the moon. But you must be patient, and not defy him. Let no one say you are more to Amnon than a good sister.”
“It is not my father,” Tamar burst out, “it is Absalom! Everyone knows that! My father does not care for me, only
for Absalom! And Absalom—”
“Is a fool,” I said. “Listen to me, Tamar—”
“Oh, you do not understand!” she cried, and fled before I could say more. At fourteen, now is all there is, and tomorrow is endless years away.
Amnon was half a dozen years older than Tamar; he did not despair of happiness so easily. He sought an ally against King David. Amnon was not a fool; he thought of me.
Of Queen Michal, the woman to whom King David denied nothing.
I was walking through my courtyard when I heard the voices beyond my gate. Some quiet words, a laugh; I was not sure whose. A voice raised in anger; Absalom’s. I walked cat-footed over to the ebony gate and stood quiet in its shadow so that I might see and hear.
It was Tamar, and Amnon, and Absalom. They did not see me; they heeded only each other. Absalom had caught Amnon’s sleeve, as if to hold him back from my gate.
“Our father is blind, Amnon, but I am not. Marry Tamar—yes, and set yourselves up as king and queen! Well, you will not have her—and you will not be named king, either! What right have you, more than I?”
Amnon laughed, and flung an arm around Absalom. “Any right I have I will give you gladly as Tamar’s bride-price! Come, brother, will you not help me in this? Perhaps if you add your words to mine, our father will heed—”
Absalom flung Amnon’s arm off. “Never!”
“Oh, brother, please—” Tamar caught at Absalom’s hand. “I shall die if I may not wed Amnon—I care for nothing else, nothing, I swear it—”
“Liar.” Absalom hurled words harsh as stones. “Harlot. You are no sister of mine—”
Tamar’s eyes widened; she, too, was a king’s proud child. “Then I may do as I please, and as my father pleases! And Queen Michal will help us, if you will not! You are a beast, Absalom, and wish to see no one happy but yourself!”
Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen Page 25