And then he ran off, seeking Bathsheba, calling, “Mother, Mother, where are you? I want you!”
I smiled after him, and then looked up. The butterfly had vanished into the endless blue arch of sky.
CHAPTER 28
“Now King David was old … .”
—I Kings 1:1
Time runs to greet tomorrow with welcoming arms while men still clutch empty-handed at yesterday. This is true for all men, even kings. And for King David it was truer than for most.
Time is woman’s ally; mother, sister, daughter. Young and old and young again; sowing and tending and harvest. Time weaves past and future in an endless skein of love.
Time was King David’s bitter enemy; the enemy that would bring him down in the end. He fought it, savage as an ailing lion beset by wild dogs. But time’s fangs sank sharp into David’s aging flesh. Even as he struggled against them, the years bled away.
Solomon was David’s youngest son, born when David was at the height of his power as a man. When Solomon was nearing twenty, and tall enough to look down at me when he smiled, David was nearing sixty, an old man in truth.
And between one day and the next it seemed age struck a sudden blow to King David’s heart. One day he lay in his bed, and would not rise. He would tell no one why; at last his servants sent for me. I went and looked down at David where he lay still upon his lion-bed.
“What ails you, David?” I spoke kindly enough, as one might to a chance-met stranger.
“Nothing ails me. Leave me be; let me rest.” David turned his face from me, fretful. His burnished hair was silvered now; frost blighting its glory.
“Are you ill?” I bent and laid a hand upon his forehead. His skin was neither hot nor cold; was not fever-flushed or grey-shadowed.
David swore he was neither ill nor weak. But that was all he would say. He would not tell me what troubled him; to say truth, I did not care. I left him and went away, telling his servants not to trouble him.
“He is the king—may he not lie abed if he chooses? Let him be.”
David did not arise from his bed all that day. But after that he walked and talked as an old man. No—an ancient man, seeing only the past; other men older than he still looked to the future. A man is allotted a given span to do with as he wills. Perhaps the glory of David’s blazing youth had burned away too many years, leaving nothing for his age to feed upon.
The shining hero and the golden king were gone forever. And David had nothing, now that he was no longer young. He had never gleaned either love or wisdom from life. Wealth and power will not warm the heart against the chill of age and death, and they were all King David had, now.
I had everything. I knew it each time I looked at Solomon. Solomon was a man, now; tall and straight and beautiful. He was such a man as any mother would gladly call son. He had wisdom, and learning too, and a loving heart to warm those cool virtues.
And Solomon was well liked, and well spoken of, but men never forgot he was a prince. To see him, one would think even his father’s father’s father had been a great king.
“Who am I, that men should praise me?” David had often said. “Who am I, that Yahweh should honor me above all men?”
Solomon would never ask that, or need to. No man would ever wonder that Solomon was praised or honored. A prince always, but never proud; wise, but never arrogant; pious, but never priestly. Solomon never spoke for Yahweh, as David so often did.
“Yahweh can speak for himself,” Solomon told me once; his face was solemn, his eyes danced light. Sometimes he reminded me of my brother Jonathan. But Solomon was no kin of Jonathan’s, save by love. “If Yahweh does not like what I do, he will make it plain enough—or Nathan will!”
Oh, but he was the delight of our eyes and hearts; never did Solomon cause Bathsheba or me a moment’s sorrow. All that Amnon had promised, Solomon was—and more.
Solomon was what David could have been.
“He will be the greatest king Israel has ever seen,” Bathsheba said once, as we stood and watched behind the screen while Solomon greeted ambassadors from Egypt. King David often gave such tasks to his sons, now.
“As he will be only the third king Israel has ever seen, that will not be hard!” I said. And we smiled at each other, for the joy the sight of Solomon upon the king’s throne gave us.
Someday, I thought. Someday, yes—and sooner than King David wished to think.
Someday was sooner than any thought, even I. Later in that year King David grew cold, and complained of it even at noon in midsummer. He could not get warm, he said; the sun loved him not and would grant him no heat, though he basked upon the rooftop like a lizard.
The wise men shook their heads, and tried this and that, until David roused up and roared that he was not yet dead, and bade them get out. They were glad enough to do his bidding; tending dying kings is a chancy business.
It was Solomon who brought King David comfort, of a sort. After David’s last roar, Solomon sat with his father and spoke long with him. And then Solomon came to me.
“Mother, I would not say this to my mother—” Solomon smiled at me and touched my shoulder, “but my father the king is dying.”
“Yes, I know I did not care, either for joy or sorrow. Long years had passed since my hate had raged; love had quenched it. Love for Bathsheba, and for Solomon. Now that David at last lay dying, I found I could not care enough even to wish him sooner dead. Poor David, I thought, and smiled at Solomon.”What is it you wish to ask of me, my heart?”
“Do I come to you only to beg boons?”
“I know how you look when you wish favors for others, Solomon. Now what is it King David would have?”
“Surely the queen is the wisest of women!”
“Surely the prince is a monkey for jests!”
Solomon laughed and knelt before me, and held my hands in his. “I see it is useless to veil truth from you, O my mother-the-queen.” Then he sobered. “You have known the king for many years.”
“Oh, yes.” I stroked Solomon’s bright hair. “Since long before you were born, my heart. Since King David was younger than you are now.
“Then tell me, you who have known him so long—I had thought—” Solomon hesitated, and his cheeks reddened. “I could not ask this of my mother, but you—”
“You may ask me anything. You know that, my love.”
“Yes—but you may not like to hear this either; you are the queen, after all. All the world knows how you and King David loved.”
“Oh, yes. All the world knows. But that love is past, and long past. So ask.”
“He is so cold, Mother. All the physicians do is pile more sheepskins upon him, but it does not help. I thought—perhaps something warmer than sheepskins to care for him? A fair maid to tend him, and sleep beside him under those sheepskins? Well—he has always liked women—”
“None better. Why Solomon, you are blushing like a maid yourself!” I looked at him sharp-eyed; mothers are careful of their sons. “Any maid?”
“Well—any pretty one.” Solomon smiled, and did not quite meet my eyes. “The king’s eye sees only beauty.”
“And not worth,” I said.
“Yes; and a king must see both. I remember that.” Solomon rose to his feet. “He—the physicians only torment him; to what end? We all know he is dying—can they not ease his passage?”
“Not while he still breathes,” I said. Then I sat and thought while Solomon waited. A fair young maid—David had always an eye for a pretty woman and had come to much grief thereby, and he was not yet blind. It would comfort him, perhaps; cheer him, if anything yet could. And there was another thing.
King David was dying—and still he would not name the prince to follow after him upon the throne. Oh, it was true that Solomon was much favored. Solomon was true gold in river sand. Some thought that enough; I knew David too well.
And there was another prince much favored by David, and by some of the people. Adonijah. Prince Adonijah was twenty-fi
ve that summer; even King David could call him ‘boy’ no longer. And Adonijah was Absalom’s full brother, and much resembled him.
The other princes still living did not trouble me; they were nothing. I knew in my bones that the balance trembled between Adonijah and Solomon. Any weight set in that balance might tip the scale one way—or the other.
“Well, Mother? Solomon said at last.”Is my idea good?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think it very good. And I think it will prove more pleasing to your father than did Adonijah’s gift of his own physician.”
“The one who prescribed leeches to remove the chilly blood? By Yahweh, it would please any man better!” Then Solomon looked at me again, and I knew he was troubled.
So I laid my hand upon his, and said, “Tell me.”
He caught up my hand and held it to his cheek. “I can hide nothing from you. But it is nothing, only thoughts that will not lie quiet when I bid them.”
“What thoughts, Solomon?”
“Ill thoughts, when my father lies dying.”
I waited, and he spoke on. “At first I thought, why should not my father have comfort? And then I thought, why should this girl not tell us what he says, and to whom? And then I thought—”
“And then you thought, ‘if I take this young fair maid to wife after, it will strengthen my claim to David’s crown’.” I touched Solomon’s hair. “But my heart, that is only sense.”
“I know. But it seems heartless to use his weakness against him so.
“Will it be kinder to let Adonijah rule? You know him, Solomon—and I knew his brother. Remember what I told you of Absalom.”
“And my brother Amnon, and my sister Tamar. I remember. I remember all you have taught me, Mother.”
“Then do not trouble yourself over this. It was a kind thought first. That it is clever as well is a blessing, not a curse.”
“And I also thought—it would be a hard thing to yoke a fawn to—” Solomon did not say it; David was his father, after all.
“An old bull? Twice do not trouble yourself over that, Solomon. If David touches a girl in lust now, I will myself walk naked through the streets of Jerusalem.”
Solomon stared at me; I smiled and leaned to kiss his cheek. “Do not heed me overmuch, my love—this waiting is hard on us all. Now go, and seek out a pretty maid for your father the king.”
“I?” Solomon looked startled as a stag brought face to face with men and dogs. You would think he had never set so much as his eyes upon a woman. “But Mother, I had hoped--”
“That I would choose her? Ah, no, my heart—it is not I who will take this girl to my bosom once David is dead. Please yourself, Solomon; what pleases you is sure to please King David.”
“But where in all the land shall I find a maiden as clever and as beautiful as you and as my mother?”
I laughed. “I will not ask which of us is clever and which beautiful! Nor will I find her for you; go, and use your own eyes. And Solomon—remember it is a queen you seek.”
“I will remember,” he said, and raised my hands to his lips. “And when I choose, I will choose a girl like you.”
“But he would do better,” I said to Bathsheba later, when I told her what Solomon and I had decided that day, “to choose a girl like you.”
It was evening before I spoke privately to Bathsheba; a queen’s days, like a king’s, are crowded with those seeking justice, mercy, favors. Sometimes it is a great favor asked—a life, perhaps. Sometimes it is a small one—a word, a smile. Always it is time. I treasured my quiet hours.
Now I sat before my window and looked out over Jerusalem. The sky gleamed iron-dark; soon it would rain. That would be pleasant, to lie here with Bathsheba beside me, and hear the soft rain fall.
“Oh, no,” said Bathsheba. “Solomon is right; she should be like you, Michal.”
I had almost forgotten what I had said to her; I remembered, and shook my head. “No, my love. Not like me.”
“But Michal—you say this girl may be the next queen—and we both know I am weak and foolish! A queen should be good and clever, like you.”
“It is possible for a woman to be too good—and I was never clever enough.”
“And she should be beautiful, too—and you are beautiful, Michal—you know you are! You are like a girl still.”
“All queens are beautiful.” Of course I was like a girl still; my body had never ripened with a child. Once that had been a grief to me. It was hard, now, to recall how sharp that pain had bitten. That was long ago. Before Solomon. I turned away from the window and smiled at Bathsheba.
Bathsheba was plump as a tame partridge now that she was nearing forty, but she was still fair to look upon. A sweet heart makes a sweet face, even when a woman is no longer young. Now she smiled at me, and said, “But Michal—do you think it will work? Do you think the king will like this girl? And do you think Solomon—”
“Has a girl already in his eye? He swore not.”
“Men,” Bathsheba told me with great dignity, “are not always truthful, when they speak with women.”
And then we looked into each other’s eyes, and laughed. “No, I suppose they are not,” I said. “As for the rest—of course the king will like her. And if he does not he will say he does, to prove himself still a man.”
Bathsheba sobered and drew near to me. “The king is very ill.” She took my hand, seeking comfort. Change drew nearer with each day that passed. The palace air pressed heavy with it.
“Yes, he is very ill.”
“And Adonijah spends much time with him.”
“As much as King David will allow.”
Bathsheba laced her fingers tight through mine. “What does Nathan say?”
“What does Nathan ever say? Wait; Yahweh will speak in his own good time.”
“I would rather hear King David speak,” Bathsheba said, and her voice trembled with her own daring.
“So would we all, my love. Failing that, I would know what King David thinks. Perhaps Solomon’s girl will be able to tell us.”
“I do not think,” Bathsheba said, “that Adonijah will like it.”
“If he does, he is a bigger fool than even I think.” And I thought Adonijah a bigger fool than Absalom had been. Now that King David lay dying, Adonijah gave himself a king’s airs. Driving his chariot through the city to show himself, with men running before crying ‘Long live Prince Adonijah!’—did he think no one from the palace saw, or knew, or cared?
Absalom once had done as much. But unlike Absalom, Adonijah did not court the people’s minds and hearts. There was no tending the poor, no granting justice. There was nothing but a great show. Adonijah sought only to flash kingfisher-bright before men’s eyes.
Yes, Adonijah was a fool. That did not make him any less a danger.
“Do you think Adonijah looks so very much like—like Absalom?”
“Yes,” I said. “He is very like.”
“Perhaps the king will see that.”
“Perhaps he will. Ah, listen—the rain has started.” I rested my cheek upon Bathsheba’s hair, and for a time the only sound was rain falling hard upon the city.
“But where is Solomon to find such a girl?” Bathsheba asked at last.
“Bathsheba, my dearest sister—Solomon is a prince, and very good to look upon, and gentle and kind as well. Somewhere in all the land he will surely find one maiden willing to take him as he is!”
“She is beautiful as the day,” Solomon told me as we walked among my lilies. “And modest, and well taught.”
“And does this paragon among women have a name?”
“Her name is Abishag.”
“And where is she from?”
“From Shunem.”
“From Shunem. And how did you happen upon this maiden, my heart?”
Solomon looked down at me, and smiled like a small boy who has eaten a plate of honey-cakes and hopes to be forgiven. “I tried to be wise, as you would be. I sent a trusted servant to seek ou
t a fair maid to serve and please Queen Michal. It was he who found Abishag in Shunem.”
“I heard nothing of this.” I would speak to Narkis; I did not like secrets that I myself did not keep.
Solomon spread his hands wide. “I said it was to be a pleasing surprise for you. Well, I did not want my search gossipped of throughout the palace. Since it was for your pleasure, I knew my man would hold his tongue.”
“Solomon—” It was no good; I laughed. At last I sobered and slid my arm through his. “Now, tell me of this girl Abishag. You have seen her yourself?”
“Yes.” Solomon’s eyes were bright. “I have seen her.”
“And which day is she as lovely as?” I could not help teasing him; no mother could have.
Solomon smiled, himself fair as a summer day. “The hair of her head is like purple; thick and rich and dark as dusk. Her skin is apricots ripe in the sun. Her teeth are matched pearls. Her eyes are the night sky bright with stars.” He paused, and added, as if it were a cherished secret, “And she smells of soap and cinnamon.”
“So she pleased you?”
Solomon laughed, and turned to face me. He set his hands upon my shoulders and kissed my forehead. “Yes, Mother. I saw her for a short time only, but she pleased me.”
“Well, that is good. Now bring her to me, and I will speak with her—and make all clear that you did not!”
Abishag was fair indeed; Solomon had not overpraised her. That was good, for David liked any pretty woman. And Abishag was comely in the fashion David favored above all others. Her slanting eyes were sloe-dark, her mouth moist and pink as a ripe peach, and she was round-breasted and round-hipped, and tied her scarlet girdle just tight enough to show this.
She was younger than I would have chosen—very young, and much impressed by the king’s city and the king’s house—and by the queen. She studied me as closely as I did her; I smiled, and bade her rise and sit beside me.
Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen Page 33