Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen

by Edghill, India

  Absalom answered her with a blow. Not a slap, as any brother might strike his sister in heat and anger—or she him. Absalom struck Tamar with a warrior’s clenched fist. The blow swept her off her feet; Tamar cried out as she fell.

  Amnon sprang forward; he grabbed Absalom’s shining hair and smashed his fist into Absalom’s proud face. Once only, as Absalom had struck Tamar. Then Amnon let Absalom go.

  “Never do that, brother,” Amnon said. “The next time I shall beat you as you like to beat others.”

  Then Amnon knelt beside Tamar, who sat weeping, her hand pressed against her cheek. “Hush, my sister, my dove. Let me see—there, it is only a bruise. It will heal.” Amnon bent over her, gentle as a shepherd with a frightened lamb. Tamar clung to him, and wept.

  Absalom stood back from them, all hot arrogance. His mouth curled, as if he would spit venom. Amnon’s blow already darkened his smooth cheek; Absalom could not bear marring. For Absalom, it was perfection or it was nothing, and so he found life hard.

  “My rings scarred her,” Absalom told Amnon now. “See, she bleeds.”

  Tamar sobbed louder; Amnon pulled her hands away from her face, and laughed. Amnon made it sound an easy thing, to laugh. “A scratch only,” he said to Tamar. And to Absalom, “Do you think I would care? I do not love Tamar only for her pretty face. You’re a fool, brother.”

  “No,” said Absalom. “It is you who are the fool.”

  I came forward then, out of the shadows of the ebony gate. “You are both fools to quarrel so loudly. King David likes peace in his house.”

  Absalom glared at me, then bowed his head. Amnon met my eyes straight. “I do not wish to quarrel, Queen Michal. I will beg Absalom’s pardon, if he will beg Tamar’s.”

  Absalom’s head came up. “Never. She is what I say she is. And you—”

  I clapped my hands together, sharp. “Prince Absalom! No, do not speak; I heard it all—yes, and saw it, too. You had no cause to strike her, and your father would not like to hear of it.”

  Tamar looked up, then. She smiled at me, though her cheek was crimson and her eyes wet. So young, and so loving—as Bathsheba was. As I once had been.

  And Amnon, cradling her in his arms—strong and wise, and gentle too. A true prince.

  Amnon rose to his feet, and lifted Tamar to stand close beside him. “If the queen heard it all, then the queen knows what—”

  “What all the world knows,” Absalom cut across Amnon’s measured words. “That you and my sister—”

  “Be silent!” My voice cut keener than Absalom’s. “Is King David dead, that you talk so under his own roof?”

  That silenced Absalom, who stood sullen as Amnon drew Tamar toward me. “O Queen, you know what we wish.” Amnon hesitated then, looking at me with his clear beautiful eyes.

  “You wish to marry your half-sister Tamar,” I said. “And she you.

  “Oh, yes,” said Tamar. “Yes. I will die if I do not.”

  “No,” I said, smiling. “But you will be unhappy if you do not.

  Amnon too smiled, and hugged Tamar to him. “I care nothing for the crown, though Absalom here will not believe it—”

  “I am not a fool!” Absalom spat out.

  “Nor am I, brother. Care rests heavier upon our father’s head than does that pretty golden crown. There is more to being king than having all about you kiss your sandals.”

  “And say how fine and handsome you are!” Tamar said, safe under Amnon’s arm.

  Absalom glared at his sister, but did not move, or speak. He was not a total fool, or so I thought that day. I did not know, then, how very unwise Absalom was, or how cruel. Or how much he coveted the band of gold that circled his father David’s head.

  “We came to beg the queen’s help.” Amnon stroked Tamar’s arm and bade her be still. “If the queen knows so much, then she knows what boon I would ask of her.”

  I laughed, then. “Oh, yes, Prince Amnon, even I can guess that!”

  “The queen is the wisest of women.” Amnon grinned at me; his smile sent an arrow of pain through my heart. If only David had ever been what I thought him, when I was as young and hot as Tamar—

  But if he had, there would be no Bathsheba, no Solomon. Perhaps there would be no kingdom; for the first time I wondered what Israel and Judah would be now, without King David. Squabbling tribes, or Philistine slaves? Or nothing?

  But there was a kingdom; Judah and Israel united from Dan to Beersheba. One kingdom, and one king. And peace within that kingdom’s borders. The next king must take what David had forged from blood and grief and hold it safe.

  Absalom was no king. Absalom thought kingship a bauble, a toy to play with.

  But Amnon—Amnon was the eldest, as well as the best; a strong claim that would be made stronger still by marriage to his half-sister Tamar. A family’s inheritance was often kept whole by such marriages—to cousin or to half-sister. That David’s property was a kingdom only made its passage to the next generation, safe and whole, more vital.

  Amnon, I thought. Yes, the next king should be Amnon. Even David must see that, and say it, too. King David is not so young as he was; it is time he spoke, and named his heir. Amnon. And the first step would be Amnon and Tamar’s marriage.

  So I thought, and so I spoke. “Since you both wish it so, I will speak to King David and plead your cause. Does that please you?”

  Tamar’s eyes widened and she squeaked like an excited kitten. “Oh—Queen Michal—you will?”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “I will speak to King David for you. I see no reason you should not marry Amnon.”

  I looked at Absalom as I spoke; he glared dark and sullen as a storm-cloud. No, I thought. Not Absalom.

  Amnon caught up my hands and kissed them. “Then we are as good as wed, for surely my father will grant whatever you ask.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “He may not. But I will ask.”

  “Love can deny love nothing,” Amnon said, and smiled down at Tamar, and touched his finger to her reddened cheek.

  That was how last I saw them—Amnon smiling at Tamar as she gazed up at him, her eyes hot as stars—and the mark of Absalom’s hand scarlet upon her face.

  CHAPTER 22

  “ … for Absalom hated Amnon … .”

  —II Samuel 13:22

  But I could not see David that day, for he was out of the city, not to return until the morrow. So I left word with his servants that Queen Michal wished to speak with him. Then I went to sit with Bathsheba and sort Solomon’s clothes with an eye to making and mending.

  It was pleasant enough work; women’s work, over which we could sit and chatter. See how much Solomon has grown—remember how he fell into the mud in this tunic—think, shall he have blue or yellow for his new cloak—

  And as we talked idly of this, and of that, I told Bathsheba what I had seen and heard that morning in the long gallery.

  “Oh, poor girl!” Bathsheba’s heart had never hardened; she was still as soft and sweet as she had been on the day I first saw her, when I stood upon my balcony and watched her combing out her dusky hair. “It is being talked of, you know, among the women. They say Amnon would wed her, would King David only agree. I do not see why he will not—they are so very much in love—”

  “Yes, they are. In another of David’s sons, I would call that love ambition—but I have seen Amnon look upon Tamar. He thinks only of her.” All unbidden I thought of them in sunlight among lilies, of Amnon’s hands on Tamar’s hair.

  “Oh, yes—but they say Prince Amnon has already spoken to the king, and—”

  “The king has refused to speak of it. Yes, I know.”

  Bathsheba brooded over Solomon’s tunics. Then she smiled, bright as dawn over the hills. “Oh, Michal! You must ask him! There is little the king refuses you.”

  “Because there is little I ask.” I kept my mouth straight and my voice low; Bathsheba was so earnest I could not help teasing.

  “Oh, but everyone knows—Michal! You ar
e laughing at me again!”

  I shook my head and swore I was not. “But I too see no reason Amnon and Tamar should not marry—and every reason they must.”

  Bathsheba’s eyes grew very round. “Must? Oh, dear—Tamar is not with child?”

  “That I do not know, but it will not matter—once I have spoken to King David and they are wed.”

  Bathsheba stared at me, then cried out with joy. “Oh, Michal—I knew you would. You are so kind, always!”

  You would think that love had never clawed her own heart or caused her a moment’s pain. I let her hug me, and kissed her, and smiled.

  “Yes, I have promised to speak for them. I told them so this morning.” I thought of telling Bathsheba my reasons. Love was not all.

  But love was all to Bathsheba, even now. So once more I chose words I thought suited to her ears, and heart. “They are of one heart only,” I said. “Who could bear to see them live apart?”

  “When will you speak to King David? Surely—oh, he must grant their marriage when you ask it, Michal.”

  “The king returns tomorrow,” I said. “I will ask him then. Tell me, Bathsheba, how does a good boy put such rents into his clothing? You would think he fought wolves barehanded!”

  But I never spoke for Amnon and Tamar to their father the king. For that very night Absalom went to Amnon’s house in the city, and there found Amnon and Tamar together. Gossip claimed Absalom dragged Tamar naked from Amnon’s bed; it might even have been truth.

  But I think it would have made no difference how Absalom had found them. For Absalom was jealous of Amnon, and jealousy is cruel as the grave. It was for that, and that alone, that Absalom slew his brother.

  In a fair fight, and in hot blood over his sister’s dishonor, so Absalom said. But Amnon’s servants said there had been no noise, until Tamar’s screams. And Absalom was always sly, and Amnon trusting.

  The only one who knew the truth now was Absalom. For when she saw Amnon dead, Tamar caught up a knife and plunged its blade into her own heart.

  Or so the tale ran. I did not believe it.

  It is not so easy to kill one’s self, when one is fourteen and hot for life. And if Tamar had indeed been dragged naked from Amnon’s arms, from Amnon’s bed, where had she found the knife that Absalom swore she’d turned upon herself?

  But whoever struck Tamar to the heart did not strike true. She lived long enough to suffer—and to name Absalom.

  All the king’s household gathered in the painted throne room to see King David give justice; half the city crowded the outer court. Amnon had been well-loved among the people. Absalom was not; he was young and strong and beautiful, but he was too proud to win easy hearts.

  I sat on my padded and gilded stool beside King David’s throne, and was thankful for the paint that made my face a bright mask. All David’s wives were there that day, clustered around his throne. Ahinoam wept; she had not painted her face, and her gown was torn and ash-smeared. She was Amnon’s mother; he had been her only son.

  Maachah did not weep, as if her daughter Tamar were not worth tears. Maachah would plead with David for her son Absalom’s life; she saved her tears for that.

  Neither woman was my friend, but still I pitied both Ahinoam and Maachah. There is no pain as deep as that of losing a child; I looked upon the two women and thought of Caleb. But at least Caleb still lived, although he was dead to me. I think Maachah suffered more than Ahinoam, although she wept less. Maachah must endure the waiting, and the judging.

  And so we all waited to hear the words King David must speak. The only sound was Ahinoam’s weeping, muffled behind her hands.

  Then Absalom came before King David, walking proud the long path to the throne. There he stood, all a prince, and stared into his father’s eyes.

  “I slew my brother Amnon.” Absalom spoke before David even raised his hand. “I do not deny it, Father. But hear me—do not condemn me before you know the truth.”

  What truth? I thought. Amnon was good and loving and Absalom is neither. What more is there than that? I looked at David, motionless upon his throne, his face blank and hard as polished stone. And for a moment, I almost pitied David, too.

  But only for a moment. For then Absalom flung himself to his knees before David, and swore his only care had been to his sister’s honor and safety. “That was all, Father—I swear it! Was I to stand by and see my sister Tamar stolen away and dishonored? I loved her well, and Amnon forced her to his will—”

  And King David caught this up like a man finding pure water in the desert. “Amnon forced her, you say? Have you any proof of this, my son?”

  “The best proof of all—does not her own deed speak for her? She could not live with the shame of her rape.” Absalom bent his head and covered his eyes, and seemed to weep.

  It was true; Absalom was his father born again. I thought of Tamar’s bright eyes and Amnon’s kind hands. I thought of how they had been together, among the lilies in my garden.

  Almost I rose up crying out against Absalom’s lie.

  But I did not. I looked at David’s eager face, and was silent. I would not risk all I had only to call Absalom what he was. Amnon and Tamar were dead; they needed nothing from me now. Let King David judge as he pleased.

  Absalom flung himself down and kissed his father’s feet; David wept and came down from his throne to lift up Absalom and embrace him. “It is a brother’s right to defend his sister.” There was a murmur from those who watched, like the low growl of a bear deep within a cave.

  King David looked, and listened, and turned away from Absalom. “But a brother’s death must be truly mourned. You must go from this house and this city.”

  Absalom bowed his head, as if David’s words were too great a weight to carry. “Yes, Father. I understand.”

  There was more, of course, all well-wrapped in stern words and weeping. But such a banishment meant nothing. Absalom owned fine lands beyond the city where he could dwell in comfort. And David must mean to forgive him all, or he would have forgiven him nothing. Absalom would go free, unpunished.

  So David wept, and Absalom spoke meek enough, as if truly penitent and grieved. Absalom’s sullen eyes told another tale. David had never schooled Absalom, taught him to curb his desires or his temper. It was too late now. Absalom had no wish to learn.

  That was when I knew that David was not wise. Clever—oh, yes, David was always that. But it was shallow, that cleverness. Scales glittering upon a serpent, ripples flashing across a river—that was David’s cleverness. Of a serpent’s patience or a river’s slow power he knew nothing.

  I folded this knowledge away to lay beside my other hard-won wisdoms. And then I rose to my feet and went to where Bathsheba stood, behind all the other wives. She stared at me, round-eyed; neither of us spoke. I put my arm around her, and led her away.

  Banishment was not a high price to pay for a brother’s murder, a sister’s death. But King David thought it harsh enough.

  “It will teach the boy a lesson,” he told me that night. “It will steady him.”

  I thought of Absalom’s brooding eyes and angry mouth. “Perhaps it will, David. But what will he learn from it? Absalom—”

  “Is high-mettled, like a young colt. Well, it is time to curb him, break him to harness. Then he’ll run sweet and fleet under the rein.” David laid a careless hand upon my breast; I did not move. I no longer need pretend I craved his touch; David had other lusts I alone could satisfy.

  “And where will he run?”

  David laughed. “Where I bid him, where else? He’s the oldest prince now; he needs his course set for him.”

  I pushed myself up; David’s hand fell away. “You do not mean to name Absalom heir?”

  “All my sons shall share my inheritance.” David’s eyes were sly, glittering in the lamplight like a fox’s.

  “But king?” I said. “Absalom?”

  “Only Yahweh can make a king, Michal.” Now David’s voice reproved a woman’s folly. Nor wou
ld he say more, although I coaxed and flattered.

  When I left the king’s rooms I did not go to my own bed. I was restless as a cat in springtime; I did not wish to wake my maids, or Bathsheba, and so I prowled my garden.

  The queen’s garden changed by night. At first all was blackness, flat and heavy; then I saw shapes, darker and paler. Bushes, benches, fountain. Shadow-flowers and ghost-water.

  My feet found the path, and I walked it up and down, from the fountain to the wall. Twenty paces up and twenty back. Up and back, my steps sure and quiet as passing years.

  Absalom. David’s favorite son. David’s heir?

  David had not said so. Oh, no—well, and I knew that trick! A hint, a promise—

  A plea. ‘Ah, Michal, if only WE had a son—’

  But I had borne no son to David, and now I was well past thirty. Too late. And now that love and not hatred warmed my blood, I would have changed that if I could. My son, trained up to be all that David was not; Saul’s grandson, to take back what David had stolen from him … .

  Too late, and too late wise. And even if I had been wiser than owl and serpent both, I could not grow a child within my womb. That had been denied; I had been glad of it, once.

  Up the path and back again. If not Absalom, then who? David should choose, and he would not.

  A laugh, a jest. ‘Ah, Michal, is King David yet dead? There is time enough, and to spare—’

  I told over David’s sons, looking for a king among them. Amnon—but he was dead and cold, and of the rest—out of a whole litter of fine hounds, which to choose?

  None, for not one could hold what David had gathered. His sons were soft, as David was not. King David had made them so, with gifts and ease and granted whims. For David would not raise a son up to take his place. The shepherd would not train another to tend his sheep.

  Did he not see that he must? Or did he not care what would happen to the country and the people once great David was dead?