Abigail (The Wives of King David Book #2): A Novel Read online

  Nabal’s voice came to her above the pounding of her anxious heart as he made small talk with her parents and the handful of well-wishers filling the house. They would feast on sweet cakes and drink the wine her parents had been hoarding until at last he would come to the dais and take her hand.

  “Abigail, he’s coming this way.” Her cousin Leah’s whisper made her throat go dry. He’d just arrived. He was supposed to greet her family in the Lord’s name and kiss her father’s cheeks and offer gifts to her mother and linger with her brother and . . .

  She smelled his heady scent before she heard his heavy footfalls across the courtyard. His gilded leather sandals stopped before the dais. She looked up, catching a filmy glimpse of his multicolored robe and turbaned headdress secured with gold-studded rubies. He wore golden wristbands and a wide golden chain about his neck. He smelled of rare spikenard, and he smiled as he parted the flimsy veil and knelt in front of her.

  “Everything is ready. Will you come?” His tone came out as more of a demand than a question. And of course, she had no choice.

  “I will come.” The words, barely audible even to her, caught in her throat. She cleared it and swallowed but did not repeat herself. His fingers now holding hers in a possessive grip told her he had heard.

  The veil fell back across her face as he pulled her to her feet. The sudden action made her dizzy again. She had eaten little since early morning, and now her appetite fled completely. She grasped Nabal’s hand for support, afraid she might faint. He didn’t seem to notice as he pulled her past the decorated court through the house to his waiting horse. She stared up at the beast, her thoughts whirling.

  “Are you ready to go for a ride, Wife?” He chuckled. “Wife.” He tested the word as though tasting it, then looked at her with a sweeping glance that made her cheeks burn. “Let’s go.”

  “But what of the others? Mama has prepared food, and the neighbors have waited so long, and we’re supposed to take time to talk and eat and laugh, and the maidens are supposed to carry torches and lead the people to your father’s house, singing love songs along the way—”

  “They’ll come. Your father knows the way. He will lead them.” He climbed onto the horse’s back and bent to reach for her hand as one of his men came up and helped boost her into Nabal’s arms.

  He leaned forward, his face next to hers. “I’m supposed to steal you away, little girl. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  She shook her head, simultaneously thanking God for the veil that hid her gaze and begging forgiveness for the lie. Fear of Nabal mingled with fear of the horse until she worried she would be sick. “I’ve never ridden a horse, my lord.” She was supposed to ride a jewel-bedecked camel—and she was not a little girl!

  His eager hands went around her waist. “Just don’t look down.”

  She could feel his hot breath on her neck, the scent of wine from his lips mingling with the spikenard. He had been drinking, which was sure to make him even more unpredictable.

  Oh, Adonai, please be with me.

  He slapped the reins, and the stallion jerked forward. Abigail stifled the urge to cry out. Nabal’s laugh merged with the roaring in her ears. She had to stay focused, stay alert. It would do no good to appear as weak as she felt. His arm tightened around her waist. He took off down the trail ahead of his men, leaving her father’s household and the wedding party in his wake.

  3

  The horse slowed to a trot as they neared the gate and stopped outside the torch-lit courtyard. Servants swarmed about carrying trays of food and drink, burning cones of incense to keep mosquitoes at bay. A male servant helped Abigail dismount. Nabal jumped to the ground behind her. “Take her to the tent, Zahara.” His command was directed at a pretty, foreign, dark-haired female servant who gave Nabal a look that seemed much too familiar.

  Abigail glanced from Nabal to Zahara, then down at her dust-covered robe and disheveled veil that the wind had whipped and plastered to her face. She could still taste the grit from the sand they’d traversed. Nabal had taken to the outskirts of town to race over rough terrain as if bandits were at his heels. No doubt he had heard of her father’s request to back out of the betrothal. Surely this was why he had whisked her away from her father’s house in such a rush as well. Did he mean now to take her to the bridal tent without the final blessing of the priest and the witness of the townspeople?

  She felt the pressure of his hand at the small of her back, urging her to follow the servant. “May I make myself more presentable for you first, my lord?” She had to stall him, to allow her father time to catch up. Surely Daniel would have hopped a donkey and would be fast on their heels.

  Nabal’s hand moved from her back to her shoulders. He turned her toward him, then slowly lifted her veil. The moon cast his already narrow face into hard, angular lines, accentuating his frown. He wasted no time lowering his head until his lips claimed hers. “You are plenty presentable already, my dear.” His fingers dug into her shoulders, and he pulled her close, his mouth pressed against her ear. “Never question me, Wife.”

  He released her then and pushed her from him. She stumbled, reeling from the obvious threat, still tasting his wine-coated breath. Zahara caught her arm and gently tugged her away from Nabal toward the sprawling house.

  Zahara moved past the outer courtyard down a long corridor of rooms. She glanced behind her, then leaned closer to Abigail. “Whatever you do, do nothing to anger him.”

  Abigail’s empty stomach turned to stone, but she nodded as though she understood. Daniel had been right all along to call Nabal a fool.

  “If you do what he asks, everything will be all right,” Zahara whispered in her ear. The servant paused at the end of the hall, then opened a door that revealed an inner court the likes of which Abigail had never seen. Flowering plants and trees ringed the smooth stone walkway. Whitewashed stone benches were spaced at various intervals. Musicians tuned their instruments in one corner of a large circular area, and a white tent bedecked with colorful ribbons stood alone and foreboding in another. Abigail shook loose of Zahara’s arm, unable to move another step. She could not enter the bridal tent without the priest’s blessing. Before Yahweh it wouldn’t be right.

  “Come.” Zahara urged her forward, but Abigail’s feet refused to budge. “Please, you don’t want to anger Master Nabal.” Zahara’s tone rose ever so slightly, at last penetrating her consciousness. The woman’s fingers closed over Abigail’s as a sense of numbness moved through her. She allowed the servant to lead her into the marriage tent. Three more maids suddenly appeared to fuss over her. They sprinkled the carpeted ground with almond blossoms and lighted five clay lamps set about the spacious, gleaming tent. A fresh sheet spread over a raised bed took up the center of the room, and a flask of wine stood near its head.

  As if in a surreal dream, Abigail felt the maids remove her veil and wedding robe, stripping her down to her white linen tunic. Cinnamon-scented oil was poured over her skin and rubbed into her neck and shoulders and down her arms. Someone pulled the combs from her elaborately styled hair, which Talya had taken great pains to put together, then wound the long tresses up again, fixing them with one large shell comb.

  “Master Nabal likes things done a certain way.” Dissatisfied with the first attempts, Zahara wound Abigail’s mass of hair a different way. “Too many combs will frustrate him.” The combs were meant to remind him of Yahweh—seven, the number of perfection.

  Abigail sank onto the bench Zahara indicated and closed her eyes, her mind unwilling to register the movements around her. The other maids scurried about the room, checking and double-checking each thing, then bowed to her one at a time and slipped from the tent until only Zahara remained.

  “You must give him the respect he desires.” Zahara knelt at Abigail’s side and bent close to her ear. Their gazes met, the implication in the woman’s words hitting Abigail with the force of a warrior’s blow.

  “You’ve been with him.”

  Zahar
a raised a brow but said nothing, neither confirming nor denying Abigail’s suspicions. Would she share her husband with this foreign servant?

  She drew a sharp and painful breath, and she placed both hands on her knees to keep herself erect. “Why is he doing this? Why does he not wait for the priest’s blessing?”

  Zahara shrugged as if she didn’t know the answer, but her expression told Abigail she knew far more than she let on.

  “Please, do not keep things from me.” She glanced beyond Zahara to the tent’s opening, imagining that she had seen movement, but the place stood empty. Blessedly, they were still alone. She released a long breath. “Tell me what you know.” As mistress of Nabal’s house, shouldn’t she be able to command a servant? But her voice shook with uncertainty, and she knew she would never sound as self-assured as Nabal did the moment he’d crossed her father’s threshold.

  Zahara cast a quick look behind her, her dark eyes giving Abigail the slightest glimpse of fear. “There is little to tell. The master heard a rumor . . .” She glanced toward the tent’s door again, then crossed her arms. “He said he would not be defrauded—and that your father would pay for his attempt to renege on a promise. The master takes no chances.”

  “Someone told Simon of my father’s request.” She already knew Nabal’s father had a strong hold on one or more of the elders, and his influence had sealed her fate. Abba had said so from the beginning.

  “He is coming. I must go.” Zahara’s urgent whisper shoved Abigail’s thoughts back to her surroundings.

  Voices drifted to her from outside the tent, one unmistakably Nabal’s.

  “Do not fear.” Zahara stood, patted Abigail’s shoulder, and moved toward the door, offering Abigail a parting look that spoke of one who had not always been a servant. A servant who might be hard to control.

  But Abigail had other things to worry about right now. She told herself to breathe in and out as her eyes fixed on the tent’s opening, her heart hammering to the beat of the distant drum. How had it come to this? For months after her betrothal, she had longed for this day, had spoken of it with her cousins and imagined what it meant to lie with a man. The old women had plenty of advice, and most of it made no sense then. Duty was a word they’d often repeated in her ear. But what of love? Nabal had spoken so sweetly of it at the betrothal and later that evening in the olive grove behind his home, when he’d coaxed her to kiss him.

  Laughter, low and harsh, followed a remark she couldn’t quite hear, and footsteps sounded on the stones of the courtyard. Her parents loved each other. Surely Nabal would show her the same courtesy. Zahara had said to respect him, but already she had lost what little respect she’d had.

  Zahara. Was the woman as familiar with Nabal as she let on? What else did Abigail not know about the man? If the elders had recognized early on, if her father had known . . .

  A man-sized shadow blocked the moon’s eerie glow at the entrance to Abigail’s woven prison. Soft and haunting music grew louder as the tent’s flap fell behind Nabal, enclosing them both in lamp-lit darkness. Sweat broke out across her forehead, and her limbs suddenly felt weighted as he sauntered closer.

  Oh, Adonai, what do I do?

  His dark eyes moved slowly over her, his smile broadening with every step. “You truly are the fairest maiden in Maon, perhaps in all Israel.” He spoke with the look and confidence of ownership. “Not even the women in the king’s household compare to you, dear . . . wife.”

  He knelt at her side while she still sat on the bench, his gaze searching hers, filling her with a deep sense of dread. What Zahara hadn’t said spoke volumes to her now. Nabal would treat her kindly if she never questioned him and never gave him a reason to think she wasn’t utterly devoted to him. His fragile ego would make him violent if she ever tried to challenge him . . . or change him.

  Despair washed over her in waves as Nabal pulled the shell comb from her hair and dug his fingers into her thick tresses. His breath came hot on her neck as he drew her close. “You are denied the priest’s blessing because your father tried to cross me.” His whispered words added to the pain he was inflicting as his hands gripped her arms, and he forced her toward the bed. He released his grip for a moment and bent to rip the white sheet from the mat, the sheet that would go to her father to protect her purity. “And your father is denied any recourse against me.” His sneer made her blood grow cold.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.” She choked back a sob, hoping her response would appease him. But he seemed oblivious to her words.

  When he had finished with her, he tied his princely robe around his waist once again and strutted from the tent. Abigail pulled a pillow to her chest and curled on her side. She would not cry.

  Neither would she respect or forgive him.

  4

  Daniel picked his way along the dry wadi of rocks and sparse grass, glancing every now and then to make sure his flock followed. He used the staff as a walking stick, his wary eyes scanning the steep hills on either side. In the rainy season, water would rush through this gorge in a life-giving stream, a satisfying place to water the hundred sheep in his care. But during the summer months, he had little worry of being washed away in a sudden cloudburst. He was more concerned about marauding thieves than changes in the weather.

  Word had it that David’s men were in these parts. Some said the malcontents who had joined the king’s son-in-law in hiding were no better than the Amalekite or Moabite raiders who camped out in these hills and struck unsuspecting shepherds.

  Daniel felt the leather pouch and sling at his side. Little good they would do him against a band of men, but he’d put up a fight if they tried anything. Right now a fight, or at least its aftermath, might cool the hot blood pumping through his veins.

  Wind whistled down to him from the cliffs above, tensing his already overwrought muscles. Was that truly the wind, or a mimicked whistle call of bandits? He stopped to listen, glancing behind again to make sure the sheep still followed. Nothing.

  He stood for the space of a few more breaths, waiting, then continued walking. The uneven ground made slow going, but the path to water and away from Nabal’s estate was worth the trek.

  How could his father have allowed Abigail to marry that fool? He clenched one hand around the staff and jabbed it hard into the ground. If the townsmen hadn’t stopped him, he would have cut Nabal’s throat after what he did to Abigail. She deserved better. She deserved a normal, traditional wedding ceremony. She didn’t deserve a man who strutted about disdaining her family, her femaleness, her innocence. She deserved a man who would protect and treasure her, not mistreat and use her.

  He cursed under his breath, though he knew no one could hear. His father felt some misplaced loyalty to Simon and his worthless son, but Daniel did not. If David and his men were hiding in these hills—he prayed to God they were—then he would find them and take Talya and join them. Whether his father agreed with him or not.

  David poked the fire with a long olive branch, stirring the embers. Dusk settled like mist across the expansive wilderness, caught between day and night, then falling swiftly to darkness. Patches of conversation drifted to him from fires at the mouths of other caves where his men and their families lived in hiding from their mad and jealous monarch. How long until Saul finally caught up with him? How long could he live on the run and ask those loyal to him to continue the fugitive lifestyle?

  He turned the stick over, then dropped it beside him. In the distance a mother scolded a whiny child, while another hushed giggles that could easily turn to shouts and laughter. In the wilderness he shouldn’t worry about noise giving his whereabouts away, but spies were everywhere, and the less the sound traveled, the better.

  A sigh escaped him. He lowered himself to a large stone and rested his elbows on his knees, watching the sparks fly upward.

  “May I get you anything, my lord?” His wife Ahinoam squatted in the dirt beside him, her beautiful face showing the strain of worry. “A cup of water perhaps? There
is still some in the jug.”

  He shook his head, offering her what he knew was a less than convincing smile. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

  She nodded and stood. “If you don’t need me then, I’ll be in the cave . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she turned at the commotion of loud male voices coming toward them.

  David stood, his hand on the dagger at his waist. “Go quickly.” He touched her shoulder in a reassuring gesture, but his hand glanced off her as she lifted her robe and rushed to do his bidding. “Who goes there?” He drew the weapon and stepped away from the fire’s light, where he was better hidden by the shadows.

  “Joab, my lord. And Abishai. We’ve got company.”

  “Friendly?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  David sheathed his dagger and stepped back into the circle of the fire pit as his two nephews stepped forward, pulling a lone man with them.

  “Who are you?” David studied the young man clothed in shepherd’s garb, minus the usual pouch, staff, rod, and sling a shepherd would carry. He shifted his gaze to his nephews and noted the man’s tools tucked into Joab’s belt. The man’s hands were bound behind him, and Joab’s thick hand was wrapped around his forearm.

  “My name is Daniel ben Judah, my lord. I’ve been searching for you to join your band.” Daniel held David’s resolute gaze. His muscles worked along his shoulders, and he strained against the men holding him, but he made no attempt to free himself. “I have heard that you allow men who are in debt or discontented to join forces with you, and that women and children are also here. I would like to bring my family and help you in your cause to take the kingdom.”

  “I do not plan to take the kingdom.” David’s gaze moved from Daniel to his nephews. Joab stood a head shorter and Abishai a head taller. Both men had muscles of bronze, but by the looks of young Daniel, he could have given them quite a fight if he’d wanted to.