Bathsheba Page 5

  “Don’t go.” His urgent tone halted her movement. “I only wish our roofs weren’t quite so far apart—I do not wish to shout to be heard.” He looked sideways then back at her again. “Or be heard by our neighbors.”

  She nodded, moving as close as the roof would allow, then backed up again so as not to have to strain her neck looking up.

  “I would jump down, but then I would have to explain to your servants why I couldn’t climb back up again.” He laughed, and the sound reminded her of the music she’d once heard him sing. “But tell me before you must go—how am I mistaken?”

  She gave a furtive glance behind and beside her, then slowly removed the scarf from her face, convincing herself she wouldn’t have to speak as loudly with the covering removed. His appreciative smile warmed her heart in a way she wasn’t sure she should feel, but she pushed the thought aside. He was the king, after all. A friend to her grandfather. She had nothing to fear.

  “About four years ago, before my marriage to Uriah, my grandfather tried to arrange a marriage with me to you. But you were not interested in taking other wives because of your promise to your wife Abigail.” At the shadow that crossed his face, she winced. “I’m sorry for your loss, my lord.” Why did she not learn to think before she spoke?

  “Thank you. Go on.”

  She swallowed, aware of his intense interest. “There is not much more to tell. Grandfather wanted to see if a match could be made between us or with someone of royal blood, but Father had it in mind to reward Uriah for saving his life in battle. So I married Uriah three years ago.”

  She looked up. The muscles worked in his jaw, but he did not say anything for a long moment. She took up the end of the scarf and draped it across her neck, leaving her face partially exposed. She should go whether he wanted her to or not. Surely the king had more important things to do than to stand here talking to her!

  “What is your name?” His question held little emotion, as though he were a scribe recording an entry in a book.

  “Bathsheba, my lord.” She dipped her head, fearing he would dismiss her, almost wishing he would.

  “Bathsheba. Seventh daughter. You have many sisters then?”

  She looked up, startled. “No, my lord. I am the only daughter of my father and my mother.” Dare she tell him more? He leaned both elbows on the parapet as though he had no intention of letting her go soon. “Bathsheba also means ‘daughter of the oath.’ My father almost lost both my mother and me in childbirth. My father prayed and asked God to spare at least one of us. If He did so, my father promised to serve Him faithfully, to be the best soldier that ever lived. Adonai chose to spare me, and so my father kept his oath and named me accordingly.” She loosened the scarf as she spoke and rested against the edge of the parapet.

  He shifted to the side, angling his head toward her. “I am the youngest of eight sons, though you probably already know that.”

  “You are fortunate to have such a large family.” She hadn’t meant for her tone to come out so wistful, and she looked away, embarrassed.

  “If my wives are to be believed, it is you who are the fortunate one, to be the only wife of one man.”

  She lifted her head but met only sincerity in his smile. “Uriah is a good man.” Her thoughts jumbled in her head. Thoughts of Uriah filled her with shame. He would not understand her desire to talk with this man, even if he was the king. She didn’t understand it herself, but she sensed she should not be here, should not continue a conversation that could only grow more intimate.

  Was the king attracted to her? The thought made her pause as she self-consciously pulled the veil across her mouth again. It couldn’t be. The king had many wives to choose from, some far more beautiful than she. And he could have any woman in the kingdom.

  A strange regret filled her at that thought. Was it she who was attracted to him? Confusion crept in, filling her with uncertainty.

  She slipped away from the parapet and bowed low. She had to get away. She could not think straight with him looking at her like that. She straightened. “If it pleases my lord, I must go.” She did not meet his gaze despite the now erratic thumping of her heart that bade her do so. “Will you please excuse me, my lord?”

  The rustle of movement above her told her he had stood as well. “Of course. I am sorry to have kept you from your work.” His sincere tone coaxed her gaze upward again, and his smile made her insides quiver. He dipped his head as though he were any normal man and not the king who held their fate—her fate—in his hands. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Bathsheba.” Her name on his tongue felt like an intimate touch.

  She shivered and backed away, fearing the feelings his nearness suddenly evoked. “Thank you, my lord. The pleasure was mine as well.” She waited, hesitant. Was it proper to just turn her back and hurry down the steps away from a king?

  “You may go,” he said, though he did not look pleased with the prospect.

  She ignored whatever desire he might be feeling, wondering at her earlier thought a few days before to comfort him on his loss of Abigail. Now the thought held too much power, and his presence too much sway over her feelings. To speak with him again would be to court trouble. His pull was too strong, his presence too commanding, his person too appealing.

  She backed farther from him, her heart beating hard, matching the way her breath came in short little spurts. When she reached the stairs, she at last broke eye contact and hurried down the steps, not sure whether she was running from the king or to the safety of her home. But she was certain she would never outrun the attraction that had passed between them, or the loneliness she would find away from Uriah’s protective arms.

  6

  David walked in an aimless circle along the perimeter of his palace, pausing every now and then at the parapet to gaze out over the city. Sunset had long past, and night sounds had drifted to stillness over most of Jerusalem. Lamplight flickered from below, and the voices of his closest neighbors drifted to him, their words indistinguishable. He hadn’t been to his roof in three months, avoiding the desire to look in the direction of the woman he’d met the day his men left for war. To speak with her again would not be proper or bode well if others heard of it. Tonight he finally gave in to the need to visit his pavilion, but found his restless legs would not still nor his mind clearly focus.

  He moved away from the edge as a sigh escaped him, an action he seemed unable to control too often of late. If he had any sense, he would fling off the responsibilities of the kingship—if for only a night—walk down the steps to his own family courtyard, and choose a wife to join him. A woman could be a great distraction from grief and war, as he’d briefly noticed the day he’d met his neighbor’s wife. But the respite had been short-lived. Abigail’s death had left a deep hole in his heart, and no other woman would ever be able to take her place. Why had Adonai taken the one woman who understood him, with whom he could discuss his concerns, share his burdens—the one woman who had stolen his heart?

  Depression tugged at him, and he was suddenly weary of pacing, his legs growing weightier with each footfall. He stumbled forward, then righted himself, waving away the guard who hurried closer as if to help him. He was not so old that he couldn’t manage to walk across his own roof! But he knew he looked more like a drunken man than a king, so he made his way to his tent pavilion, relieved to sink into the cushions of his couch. He looked up at the sound of footsteps. The guard coming to check on him, no doubt.

  “My lord king, Hushai the Archite is asking to speak with you. May he approach?” Benaiah stood at the tent’s opening, surprising him.

  “I thought you were taking the night off, Benaiah. Go home to your wife and children. Your king can survive without you for one evening.” David ran a hand over his beard, studying his faithful guard. “And yes, send Hushai to me.” He leaned his head against the cushions and briefly closed his eyes, not realizing until this moment how exhausted he felt.

  “My wife was needed at a birthing, leaving an empty house.” Benaiah was never one to go into lengthy explanations. He turned to leave, but David knew the man would not go home. The thought was strangely comforting. He closed his eyes again, wishing he could drift into a dreamless sleep, but knew without doubt sleep would not come.

  David sat up at the sound of Hushai’s approach and accepted a golden goblet of wine from a servant. “What can I do for you, Hushai?” He swirled the liquid, then held it still, looking into his reflection. The likeness was too shadowed to see much. Just as well, considering how haggard he must appear. He took a long sip, tasting the sweet bitterness, so like life.

  “Must I want something from you, my lord?” Hushai shifted his bulky frame and lowered himself to a cushioned seat opposite David. He smiled, his uneven teeth showing behind a graying beard, his dark eyes holding David’s own.

  “Everyone wants something, my friend.” David set the chalice aside, picked up one of his many lyres, and plucked a soft tune. “It is the duty of a king to give to his people. I expect nothing less.”

  “A true friend does not always expect a favor, my lord.”

  David looked up, appreciating the man’s effort. Of all people, Hushai would be least likely to seek favors. “A king has very few true friends.” Especially not among his wives or sons. The thought brought with it a fresh wave of irritation. He strummed a discordant note, then shifted to a haunting minor key, his head bent low to avoid eye contact with Hushai. The man probably wanted to offer David a piece of well-earned advice, whether David wanted to hear it or not.

  When the last chord ended, David rested the lyre on his lap and leaned back against the cushions. Hushai sipped from his silver goblet as a manservant stepped outside the tent, leaving them alone again.

  “Even you have a reason for c
oming here, Hushai—even if all you happen to want is my company.” He gave a short laugh. “Though of late, I’m not sure why anyone cares.”

  Hushai clasped both hands around his goblet, then appeared to change his mind and set the cup aside, folding his hands over his ample middle. “I remember when you first came to Hebron, when Judah first anointed you king over them. You were at the brink of achieving all God had promised you. It was a heady moment.”

  David crossed his ankles, remembering. Those days had been fraught with strife and civil war, but in certain ways they were simpler. Melancholy accompanied that thought, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Your point?”

  Hushai did not look the least concerned by David’s discomfort, settling more thoroughly against the cushions as though he planned on a long visit. “But there were difficult moments too, with Chileab’s injury and the lady Abigail.” Hushai paused, giving David a pointed look.

  David fought the urge to squirm under his friend’s scrutiny. Hushai was the one person who knew what David had done in sending Abigail away and what he had sacrificed to make it right again.

  “You promised Abigail something, my lord, and I have watched you keep that promise.”

  He raised a brow and offered Hushai a wry smile. “That promise was not as hard to keep as you might think.” Fewer women to vie for his attention, to beg favors for their spoiled sons. Fewer women to annoy him with their unceasing demands. Fewer women to please.

  Hushai chuckled, uncrossing his arms to rest both hands on his knees. “In truth, no, I didn’t think you could keep such a vow, especially when half the tribes in Israel brought their daughters to parade before you. I thought you’d give in and choose at least a few of them. To keep peace, of course.”

  David smiled, meaning it this time. “Of course.” He’d managed to keep peace without the added wives, but he often wondered what the disappointment of those men had cost him in loyalty. A king was never without enemies.

  “So what are you trying to say, Hushai?” He enjoyed his friend, but this subject wearied him. “I kept my promise to Abigail and now she’s dead. Why Adonai allowed her to be taken when I have other wives I could have suggested He consider first, I have no idea. Why take the one woman who mattered most to me? Even Michal with her newfound faith in Yahweh doesn’t stir me to seek Adonai like Abigail did.” He drew his hands together and studied them, palms up. How calloused his fingers, yet when he thought on it, he could still feel the silky smoothness of Abigail’s skin beneath their tips. “What am I supposed to do without her, Hushai?”

  He hadn’t expected to voice the question or for its weight to carry so much emotion, though it had been playing in his head for months like an incessant wedding drum. Somehow, speaking it aloud made the grief seem slightly less sharp. He drew in a slow breath and let it out, his gaze fixed on Hushai.

  “I am deeply sorry for your loss, David.” His friend rarely used his given name, and it surprised and pleased him. “I admire you for keeping your promise to Abigail, but she is gone now. You are not bound to that promise.”

  “The law still tells kings not to take many wives.” He’d grappled with the thought more times than he could count. He’d grown weary of his own internal arguments.

  “Yes, but how many is ‘many’? Do the wives you have now please you? Can one of them replace what you had with Abigail? Are you willing to see if that is possible?” The questions came like silent arrows to his heart, as though his friend had somehow peered past his outward show of kingly facade and read the depths of his soul.

  David forced his body from the cushions and walked to the tent’s opening, his gaze taking in the blackness of the cloudy night. “There are none who come close to Abigail, and you know it, Hushai. So why do you torment me with such questions? Why do you add to my frustration?” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly wishing he was not so easily swayed by a woman’s beauty or her charmed words. Such weakness. He blew out a breath and turned back into the pavilion, sinking again among the soft cushions. “What would you have me do? Just tell me.” He had run out of answers, excuses, and reasons. Let someone else make the judgments for a change.

  “Take another wife.”

  The words hung in the silence. Crickets sounded somewhere in the distance, their mating calls matching the steady beat of his heart.

  “Take another wife. Just like that?”

  “Your promise to Abigail is ended, my lord. Let us search among the women of Jerusalem. We won’t have to leave the city to find someone.” Hushai’s eyes sparkled as if he already had someone in mind.

  “What of the law? Wasn’t it you who was always quick to remind me of it?” He held Hushai’s intense gaze, seeing the light flicker but a moment in his dark eyes.

  “You would not need to take many more, my lord. Just one—to replace Abigail.” Hushai lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “You need a woman whose heart can hold yours like hers did. Unless, like I said, you can replace Abigail with one you already have?”

  Could he? He couldn’t say he had actually explored such a thought. He’d grown weary of their complaints and too used to their fake charms.

  “You had something once with Michal.”

  David looked away, not liking the direction of the conversation. “Michal may have changed, Hushai, but our love was never what it should have been. I do not have the energy to revisit those memories.”

  Hushai shifted his bulk, leaning forward, both elbows on his knees. “Then take another wife.”

  “You seem mighty sure of yourself.” David lifted the goblet from the table and took a long, slow drink. Did he honestly want another wife? But what was one more among so many, especially if he was only filling Abigail’s place? He slugged down the rest in one gulp, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Nothing, no one, could take Abigail’s place.

  “I’ve had some fathers approach me. I’ve seen some of your choices.” Hushai smiled, his look mischievous.

  “You have, have you?” He could not shake the melancholy thoughts but smiled anyway, holding his friend’s gaze. “Perhaps you should let me have a look at these choices then.”

  Why did the thought actually interest him? Was he mad? Probably. But Hushai was right in another sense. There was no longer a reason to keep his house from growing stronger. Adding another wife would mean more sons, and spoiled or not, more sons would strengthen his kingdom.

  Thoughts of the law flitted through his mind, but Hushai had a point there too. Many meant more than one. How many was too many? As long as they didn’t turn his heart away from Yahweh, the number shouldn’t matter. Nothing, no one, could shake his devotion to Adonai.

  “Bring me your choices, Hushai.” He called for the servant to refill his cup and bid Hushai goodnight, his heart lighter than it had been in months.

  7

  Bathsheba stood in the cooking room as servants moved around her, cleaning the remnants of the morning meal to begin preparations for the New Moon feast later that evening. Despite Uriah’s absence, Bathsheba made certain the laws, purifications, sacrifices, and festivals were kept, knowing her husband would request an update and an accounting when he returned. She had already sent the invitations to her grandfather, Aunt Talia, Chava and her husband Matthias, and Rei and his new wife Jarah. All had agreed to join her for the feast that followed the sacrifices at Gibeon. The journey to the high place and back would take time, and she was restless to be off.

  Yearning for her family tugged at her. Chava had been absent from their weekly visits at the marketplace, still sick with her second pregnancy, but it was not Chava’s face she missed. If Bathsheba was honest with herself, it was a glimpse of the king she longed for most. Her pulse quickened at the thought, bringing with it a troubling sense of guilt.

  She moved from the cooking area toward the front of the house, pausing at her room to snatch her cloak and head scarf. Loneliness was the only explanation for the way her mind kept replaying their conversation of months before. If Uriah had never gone to battle, she would not have been on the roof at that moment or even spoken one word to the king. That her gaze had traveled nearly every day since to the spot where he’d stood was a testament to the fact that she missed her husband. Would the war never end?