Bathsheba (23 page)

Bathsheba.
The thought of his wife made his insides melt. How he missed her! And now to be so close in Jerusalem, barely a stone’s throw from his home, and not go to her or be with her? How could he stay away? Especially when the king had sent a gift to greet him at home, probably food of some kind for him to stave the hunger still gnawing at him.

But to do so would violate the king’s own principles. Joab and his men were living in tents at war, without the privilege of a wife to warm them. How could he in good conscience return to them and deny that he had gone home, if indeed he had? To see her would make him unclean for only a day, but it would change his mind-set, muddle his thinking, make him less ready or able to return to the battle, geared to fight as he should. He could not command his men if they knew he had given in to fleshly desires while they were denied. His pride would not allow it. Besides, if his calculations were correct, she would be unclean for another week—her cycles were too precise to be any different.

As he passed under the palace roof to the portico, the late afternoon breeze feathered the hairs along his forehead. Voices filtered to him from the guardhouse. The king had barracks at the door and the rear of the palace to house the elite Thirty when the need arose, and the Cherethite and Pelethite guards under Benaiah’s command, a rotation of mercenary men who kept the palace safe. The scent of fresh bread and spices made his stomach turn over in hunger once more. He needed to eat and sleep, both of which he could get—and more—if he walked through the palace gates and turned down the lane toward home. Indecision played with his weary mind, but he snuffed the desire for his wife as quickly as it came.

He moved toward the guardhouse, but the king’s implied suggestion stopped him again. He glanced from the gate to the barracks, uncertainty niggling the back of his neck. What if his calculations were wrong? A groan escaped him as he closed his eyes against the image of Bathsheba’s alluring form. He must not do this.

Drawing in a slow breath, clenching both hands into fists, he straightened, certain of his choice. He moved toward the sound of the men’s laughter and entered their quarters. After he filled his belly, he would stretch out in a corner somewhere and sleep.

Bathsheba stood at the small window in her bedchamber, lamplight glowing, starlight casting shadows over her home’s private inner court—the court where her life had changed course forever. The bronze basin lay in a corner against the wall, where she and Tirzah had left it that afternoon. Tirzah’s suggestion that she complete her purification regardless of her condition made sense, and would keep the servants from knowing the truth a while longer. If she avoided the ritual, they would have all the more reason to talk, and gossip was the last thing she needed right now.

But the lie she was continuing to perpetrate turned her heart cold. She shivered against the night breeze, the cool air stirring the myrrh wafting to her from her freshly washed bed linens, and her skin tingled with anticipation and growing dread.

The evening meal had come and gone. The roasted lamb cooked to perfection by the king’s own servants had been delivered with a host of vegetables and sweets, but she had eaten the feast alone, and the taste had long ago turned to ash in her mouth. Surely Uriah should have joined her by now. The king’s gift evidenced her husband’s return, so where was her husband? Why had he not come home?

Her stomach tightened and another chill worked through her. Her bare, hennaed feet and the sheer tunic draping her clean, washed body mocked her. She moved from the window and sank onto the edge of the bed, tears surfacing, threatening to mar the kohl Tirzah had placed along her eyelids. Did he know? Had Anittas told him her secret? Did Anittas know the truth?

Tirzah had reassured her again and again that Uriah’s servants did not suspect anything amiss. But Bathsheba’s guilt told her otherwise. She had never been good at lying. Her cheeks warmed at the memory of her father’s swift punishments when she had attempted such a thing. And one look from Uriah would pull the truth from her.

She stood and paced the small room. Should she don her robe and go to the palace to seek him out? No. Such a thing was unheard-of. If Uriah had chosen to spend the night somewhere else, there was nothing to be done about it on her part. If even the king could not persuade him to come home with such a gift as the lavish feast he had sent, her presence would make no difference.

If he would come to her, she would cast herself at his feet, kiss the hem of his robe, and tell him everything. She would plead for mercy and serve him however he wished the rest of her days. If he would only forgive her.

But she could not ask him, could not tell him the truth, if he did not come home. And if he did not come home, there was nothing left for her to do.

21

The plaintive cry of a mourning dove filled David’s chambers with unwanted song. Despite a more restful night’s sleep than he’d had in over a month, his mood faltered between relieved and troubled. He sat at a wide table laden with fruit and bread, sauces and cheeses, their colorful display meant to tempt his appetite. But he merely picked at the food, choosing a long, savoring drink of crimson wine instead.

Only the foolish ones got drunk in the morning, and he had no intention of drinking to such a point, but nothing else seemed able to calm his tattered nerves. He had done the right thing bringing Uriah home. By now the man had surely slept with his wife, and all would be well. Bathsheba had been wise to contact him so soon. When the child came a month early, perhaps Uriah would not notice. If he did, David would bribe the man with position and power to appease.

He broke off a piece of soft white goat cheese and popped it into his mouth. Leaning into the cushions of his couch, he sipped again from his cup. His eyes closed and he thought not for the first time how privileged Uriah was to have married such a woman. A hint of irritation tickled his neck at the realization that such a beautiful woman had been in the home of his counselor and one of his Thirty, and neither had offered her to him. Despite his promise to Abigail, they could have offered. His mind begged the question,
Why not?

The dove’s incessant funeral dirge interrupted his musings. He shoved up from the couch and strode to the open window, the liquid sloshing in the goblet. Eliam had made no secret of his disagreement with David’s multiple wives. He’d seemed glad of it when David had kept his word to Abigail and not added more women to his royal family. Had he hidden Bathsheba from him for that reason?

His jaw clenched at the thought as he closed the window against the dove’s irritating sound. A double knock on his door made him turn and nearly spill the wine. He steadied his hand and took a long, slow drink before striding across the long room. Benaiah always gave the door two swift raps, then waited for his summons to enter. The man was dependable, and now more than ever before David needed someone to rely on.

“Come in,” he called once he had settled in his seat again. Legs stretched in front of him, he attempted to appear at ease, even if his heart and mind told him otherwise.

Benaiah stepped into the room and closed the door, then walked across the room to face David. He dipped his knee in a short bow, then straightened at the wave of David’s hand.

“Tell me what has happened.” He stared at the liquid almost gone from the golden cup, seeing his own fading reflection.

“My lord king, Uriah the Hittite did not go to his house last night. He slept at the door of my lord’s palace in the bunkhouse with the king’s servants.”

David lifted his head from staring at the wine to meet Benaiah’s impassive gaze. The man had an opinion on everything, but he rarely offered it, and David would not hear it now unless he asked. “Any idea why he did that?”

A muscle moved in Benaiah’s bearded cheek, but his gaze did not falter. “Uriah is loyal, a soldier on active duty. He would not do something to compromise his position or authority with his men.”

Heat crept up David’s neck at the implied reproach in Benaiah’s words, but he could hardly reprimand the man for telling him what he had asked to hear. He stood, turning back to the window, and straightened his spine. “Bring Uriah to me in my audience chamber.” He would dress in full regal garb as a reminder to the man of who it was commanding Israel’s troops, who it was they were to obey. Perhaps he had been too friendly and not firm enough yesterday.

David turned back into the room and saw that Benaiah had already departed to do his bidding. He summoned his servants to help him dress. He would face Uriah once more and see what he could do to persuade the man to do the right thing.

Uriah straightened the collar of his military tunic, checked the leather girdle at his waist, and pinned the striped cloak closed with the golden lion’s head pendant. He looked down, making sure the clasp held secure, pride swelling within him. He had worked hard to make it into David’s elite ranks and had given much to accomplish the duties that came with the captain’s office. Now he could return today to the battle with confidence that he had stayed true to those duties, and infuse his men with courage to do likewise.

He checked his sword and smaller dagger and moved through the barracks, giving the place one last sweeping gaze. Raised pallets lined the walls, but each man had a small area for personal items. Not much was needed while the guards were on rotation away from home. The king supplied their food and drink while they supplied his protection. It made for a good system, and Uriah admired the king for his skill in maintaining a smooth-running government.

He ducked around a fellow guard entering the barracks as he passed through, then headed to the king’s stables. He was anxious to return and would see if he could commandeer a horse or mule to make the trip faster. His sandals clicked along the tiled walkway, but he stopped as a servant approached.