Authors: India Edghill
Queenmaker (10 page)
“And if I am?” I said.
“Then I will come, and bring you home again. Even King David is not above the Law; he cannot keep a man’s wife against his will and hers.”
And then Phaltiel kissed me, there on the road before Abner and all the soldiers. That was how we said good-bye.
“So David dwelt in the fort, and called it the city of David.”
—II Samuel 5:9
It had been long since I traveled far, and never had I done so in great state. I learned now how a gilded litter swayed and dipped; how crimson leather curtains cut off light and air. I would rather have walked in the sun and the dust. And I told Abner so.
“Let me walk,” I said when we at last stopped to rest. I was so hot and giddy I feared I would be ill. “I am a farmer’s wife, and used to work—I can keep your pace.”
“You are a queen now,” Abner said. “David’s queen does not walk in the dust for all to gaze upon.”
“Oh, so high! My father’s wives walked to the river with the other women—yes, and did the washing, too. So do not be so foolish, Abner. I would rather walk.”
“You will ride,” Abner said, and nothing I could say would move him from that.
And so I rode in the swaying queen’s litter, lying upon embroidered and tasseled cushions. The colors were bright as butterfly wings, the cloth so smooth it caught on my fingers when I stroked it. I looked at the pulled threads now marring the fine pattern; threads caught and broken by my touch. Then I looked at my hands.
I had always tended them well enough, rubbing goose fat on them in the winter. But even so they were roughened by woman’s work, by spinning and sewing and weaving. A woman’s hands.
Not a queen’s. I looked at my housewife’s hands, and at the queen’s cushions, and suddenly I knew all would be well.
Not a queen’s. I looked at my housewife’s hands, and at the queen’s cushions, and suddenly I knew all would be well.
David had not seen me in ten years; he did not know how I had changed—and that I was truly happy with Phaltiel. When last David had seen me I had been sick with love of him; I was cured of that illness now. I had been cured long since. David had never come for me, or sent word; well, Jonathan had always said David must have his reasons. But I no longer cared what those reasons were.
David had last seen an overproud little princess; King Saul’s daughter. That girl was forever gone, and only Phaltiel’s wife remained. King David would not want Phaltiel’s wife.
And so I smiled and stroked the embroidered cushion—carefully, so that I would break no more threads. Yes, I had changed with the turning years; David must have been changed by time as much as I. Phaltiel was right, I had only to be calm, and wise. I had only to wait, and talk once more with David.
We would meet one last time, and perhaps we could speak of Jonathan, and I would tell David that I heard his songs even in the village of Gallim. And I would tell him of how I now loved Phaltiel. Yes, David and I would talk, and laugh at how foolish I had been when I was young.
And then all would be well. David would send me home, and we would part as friends.
It was a comforting thought to hold as talisman against the jolting of the litter and the closeness of the dim air trapped by the leather curtains. I think I even thought that it was true.
And so I was brought as a queen through the land. When we went by a farmstead, or through a village, women and children, and even many men, ran to watch wide-eyed as we passed. Such a show was a new thing in our land.
A man ran ahead to cry out that all should
“Make way for the
war-chief Abner and Queen Michal, make way for King David’s men.”
When first I heard that I thought of how my father King Saul had walked with his men as a comrade, and of how David had dwelt with his in caves in the wilderness, and I laughed. It seemed that Abner kept greater state for David than David did.
“Make way for the
war-chief Abner and Queen Michal, make way for King David’s men.”
When first I heard that I thought of how my father King Saul had walked with his men as a comrade, and of how David had dwelt with his in caves in the wilderness, and I laughed. It seemed that Abner kept greater state for David than David did.
So I thought until I saw Jerusalem.
Abner stopped the men at the crest of the ridge north of the city and held back the curtains himself so that I might see. “There,” Abner said. “There is Jerusalem. King David’s city. The city where you will be queen.”
The twin walls of Jerusalem circled the city like bracelets on a bride. Behind them the city flaunted itself upon its hills; protected by such guardians without it could afford to be careless within. Even so far away the city’s riches flashed and caught the eye—pillars green and crimson and blue, flowers bright upon roof tops, market awnings striped white and yellow.
“That is the king’s house,” said Abner. “There, on the far hill, beyond the second wall.”
I did not answer Abner, but I looked. The king’s house stretched my eyes; I had never seen anything like it. Walls white and gold in the sun, galleries with columns of purple and scarlet—so much I could see through the dust and distance. That, and the way the dwelling crowned its hill and surveyed all the shining city below like a queen.
My father had lived all his life in the house his father had given him as a wedding-gift. When he needed more room, he had built a new courtyard, a new tower. Saul’s house had been like any man’s, even when he had been a king for many years.
It was only two years since the battle at Mount Gilboa; two years that David had been called king in Judah. What had David become, that he built himself such a house?
“You see before you King David’s city, you can guess his power. What do you think now, Princess?” Abner smiled, a snake sure of its bird.
I looked at him, and looked again across the roofs of Jerusalem
to where the king’s house waited for me on the highest hill. “I think,” I said at last, “that King David has a great house—and that he spends too much on paint and gilt.”
to where the king’s house waited for me on the highest hill. “I think,” I said at last, “that King David has a great house—and that he spends too much on paint and gilt.”
It was not what Abner wished to hear, so he pretended he had not and gave the order to move on. It was a small victory, without meaning—but I now had need of even small comforts, and so it pleased me a little. And Abner did not speak to me again, which pleased me more.
It took the rest of the forenoon to reach the gates of Jerusalem and then to climb its crowded streets to the upper city where the king’s s house crowned all. There was much stopping and waiting, for the marketplaces were full, and the streets also. Sheep and donkeys and old women hauling water from the well move at their own pace, and even the king’s name will not hasten them. Delay did not trouble me, for I was in no hurry.
The crimson leather curtains were drawn tight closed; I could not see Jerusalem. But I could hear it, city noises louder and more varied than anything I remembered from my father’s city of Gibeah. And when we stopped, I could hear the street-talk clearly—ones own name will always catch the ear.
“It is the Princess Michal,” they told one another. “Mad Saul’s daughter. King David’s queen.” They sounded pleased and proud, as if David, or they, had done something clever or had a debt well paid.
I wondered what tale David had spun that my coming seemed to bring the people pleasure. I heard more and more talk of me as I was borne through the streets. “David’s wife, returned to him at last.” “She saved his life, they say” “Her father was mad; what of the daughter?” Once again I was thankful that heavy curtains veiled me from curious eyes.
At last we were at the gates of the king’s house on the hill;
soon I would see David. And I wondered now what tale David would weave for me.
soon I would see David. And I wondered now what tale David would weave for me.
It did not matter; I did not care. So I told myself, as I had all the long way from Gallim—but now my blood beat hard and thick and slow under my skin; a serpent tempted to rouse from a winter’s long sleep.
Through gates and through courtyards, until at last my litter was set down and the curtains pulled back. My journey was over. I stepped out into a quiet courtyard and a horde of chattering maidservants. Giggling all the while, they bustled me in through a wide doorway before I could even look about me and draw a deep breath.
No one came forward to say that she was David’s wife, and bid me welcome as a guest should be. That was ill done; David had half a dozen wives now, and more concubines. Someone should have been here to greet me properly, and see to my comfort.
Oh, I stood in a fine room, that I would grant. On the walls new-painted swallows flashed bright among poppies and wheat. Carved cedar shutters were hooked back from two large windows; the room was full of light. But painted walls and wide windows, however fine, are not food or drink or rest.
The maids who surrounded me seemed to have no proper notions at all; they tugged at my gown and urged me to hurry, hurry, for the king would see me. The serpent under my skin slid cold beneath my heart and coiled there, and waited to see what Michal would do.
I counted three, and breathed deep and slow, and then I flung back my veil and spoke sharp words. “See King David like this, with dust up to my eyes and my hair a nest for bees? Is that a fit way for him to welcome the daughter of Saul—or for her to greet the king of Judah?”
They stood all round-eyed; I stamped my foot. “Fools, do you truly not know how to serve a woman weary with travel? I will see the king, but not until I have washed my body and oiled my hair
and changed my linen. Now go and ready a bath, that I may prepare myself to receive King David.”
and changed my linen. Now go and ready a bath, that I may prepare myself to receive King David.”
I clapped my hands hard and the silly girls scattered, noisy as partridges, to do my bidding. For all its fine scarlet columns and gilded lintels and purple curtains over doors, it was not a good house; I did not think overmuch of the way David’s wives kept his state. I did better for Phaltiel with less—and my handmaids did not gape and giggle at visitors.
Still, the maids did well enough, though it took them their own good time to bring the brightly painted bath and fill it. with water. I had no wish to hurry, so I smiled upon them and spoke as a foolish woman will, worrying over what I should use and wear and say, and then changing my mind and asking what they thought. They were most willing to advise me, and happy to quarrel with each other. It was another sign of an ill-run house, but the manners of these maids were no concern of mine.
At last the bath was readied to their liking. They drew out the pins from my travel-used gown and took it away; I stepped into scented water. Water that tasted of roses and lilies was poured, and ran cool over my hot skin.
Water spilling over me, and women’s talk. I closed my ears to the idle chatter and my eyes to the light. I would not think now. I would only rest, and wait.
Water poured, and silence. Water that slid over my body like oiled silk. Silence of breaths drawn deep and held, movement quickly stopped.
I did not have to open my eyes. I knew.
“Leave us, all of you,” I said, and listened behind my lids as the maids went from the room on soft-padding feet. There was little sound from them now; a skirt rustled, a bangle chimed. The heavy curtain flapped and sighed; it fell with a final thud across the doorway and they were gone.
I opened my eyes and looked into David’s.
“You have not changed, Michal. I would have known you anywhere.” He was older. There were thin lines around his eyes and
mouth that had not been there when I last had looked upon his face—well, that had been ten years ago; he was near thirty now. But his voice was still as beautiful as harp-song, warm as love in winter dark.
mouth that had not been there when I last had looked upon his face—well, that had been ten years ago; he was near thirty now. But his voice was still as beautiful as harp-song, warm as love in winter dark.
“How, among so many others?” I said the words as if what I most wished were true, and I cared nothing for David or for what he might do. But it did not matter what I said, or how; David smiled, and my heart twisted in my breast.
“By this,” he said, “and this, and this.” His hands were soft and free as water on my wet skin. “We had only our wedding night, Michal, but it would take forty times forty women to make a man forget you.”
My skin trembled under his touch as the serpent woke full and sank its fangs deep. I could hardly breathe; I could not move. I was no unripe girl now. My body knew what it would have, for my loving husband had taught it well—
“No!” I cried, and turned away, pulling my hair around me. It stuck and clung wet, and did not cover much. But I tried.
David laughed. I had forgotten how he laughed; rain after summer heat, spring leaves in the wind.
“May a man not touch his wife, Michal?” His hands slid over my shoulders, lifted my hair damp from my neck. “It has been too long since you looked at me with love in your eyes, sister of Jonathan. I have missed you as I miss him. He is gone, but you are still here to walk and talk with me. Turn your eyes on me again, and we will start anew.”
Sweet words. But David’s song came too late; I was wiser now, and would not be drawn to that lure. I swore I would not. “No,” I said again.
This time I moved farther, out of reach of his hands. I stepped out of the bath and caught up a length of drying-linen to wrap and shield me. “You do me too much honor, great king. But I am another man’s wife. Would you see me stoned at the wall?”
“You were mine first.”
“And I am Phaltiel’s now.”
“There are no children; he is old; you were not willing. Such a marriage can be set aside.”
“I have been married ten years,” I said.
We faced each other across the now-still water in the painted bath. Once, long ago, I had been a princess and he a shepherd’s son. Now I was a farmer’s wife and he was a king; a lion to do as he willed. And he willed me to bend freely, for love of him, and so he smiled, and held out his hands.
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