Queenmaker (24 page)
Authors: India Edghill
But I was wrong.
“You are too warm for such a cold dish as that, my little princess. You are alive—choose life!”
I could hear the words as plainly as if Phaltiel stood behind me and spoke them.
I could hear the words as plainly as if Phaltiel stood behind me and spoke them.
I bent and drew Bathsheba to her feet and wiped her face with my own veil. “I do not hate you, and no stone will ever touch you, I swear it. I will speak to King David myself. Now be calm, and smile—the king may come to see you here, and he has never liked a weeping woman. No, do not kneel and thank me—what is the use of being queen if I cannot even help my dearest friend?”
Bathsheba was a foolish cloud-dreamer. But David was not, and I was not, and so I thought before I ran to him. And then I called for my women and was bathed, and rubbed with oil scented with spikenard. Then I dressed as David liked to see me, as a queen, choosing what I knew would make me fair to his eyes. My robe was colored with Tyrian dye, tasseled with gold and embroidered with silver. I painted my eyes with kohl and my mouth with carmine, and my maids braided my hair with scarlet cords and crystal disks. To save Bathsheba, I must please David. And over the past two years I had learned well how to do that.
I did not think Bathsheba’s life would be a hard boon to win; I did not think Bathsheba’s husband valued her beyond a price the king could pay. And even if David had tired of her, why should
King David not pay whatever Uriah asked? David had a dozen wives and twice a dozen concubines; one more woman under his roof would be nothing to him.
King David not pay whatever Uriah asked? David had a dozen wives and twice a dozen concubines; one more woman under his roof would be nothing to him.
The heart of the king’s house was the great center court. Here David sat upon his throne of carved and gilded cedar and heard all who came before him to praise, or complain, or ask for justice. Here the work of the kingdom was done, in plain sight of all men—or at least, so all men thought. I knew better; the true work of kings and kingdoms is done in darkness and in secret, and in death.
I might have sent a messenger before me, but I knew David, and what he liked. And so I made a great show of going to him, a queenly sight to stretch men’s eyes wide, and make them envy King David his wealth, and power, and his beautiful women.
I came to the great court with my head high and walked the tiles of marble and jasper that led from the doorway to the throne. There I knelt, and smiled, and begged that King David would come to Queen Michal when the court was ended, that she might speak with him upon a private matter.
All this fine show pleased David, as I had known it would. The House of Saul bowed willing to King David; that would always please him.
“The king will come,” David said. I thanked him, and would have risen; David leaned forward and caught my hands and spoke low and laughing, to my ears alone. “What is this private matter, Michal?”
“If I tell it in open court the matter will no longer be private, my lord king. It will be for all men’s eyes and ears soon enough.” I bent my head, as if I kissed his hands. “Come to me later, that I may beg a boon of you.”
That pleased him still more; David liked me to turn to him for favors. “Whatever you ask, I will grant—have I not sworn so to you often enough? Whatever will please my queen, that shall she have. Nor shall you wait upon my pleasure, or that of any man’s—they shall be gone, beyond the pillars, so that you may speak.”
I swore I would happily await the king’s pleasure, but David would not have it so. A padded stool was brought for me; the court was cleared, with much pushing and shouting, to make way for the queen to speak with the king. All this was what David liked—it was the great king stooping to humor a woman’s whim. The gesture would sing well, and David liked life to be a song, with King David plucking the strings to set the tune.
And when at last the people were back past the pillars, and the court stretched barren and empty around us, David smiled and caught up my hand like an eager lover.
“Your private matter, Michal—shall I guess it? You are with child at last!” He seemed very sure, as if he had planned it this way. “Oh, Yahweh is good—”
“No,” I said. “Not I. It is Bathsheba who is with child.”
For a moment David did not answer, as if I had sung a line from a different song, one he did not know. “Bathsheba?”
“Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah. It is only a month last you went to lie with her—even you must still recall her face.” I made it a jest; praise for his manly prowess.
He did not try to deny his fault. “That is true—but I swear, my queen and my heart, that she is nothing to me now.”
“I care nothing for what she is to you, but she is dear to me. She carries your child, lord king. She weeps her eyes out for love of you. I told you I craved a boon of you—give your captain Uriah whatever he asks, but take Bathsheba from her husband and bring her to your house.”
Again David did not answer quickly. There was a moment when all I heard was the murmur of men’s voices from beyond the pillars that ringed the court. Then David said, “Even if the woman is with child, who is to say it is not her husband’s?”
“All Jerusalem, for he has been gone half the year at the siege with his men—” And then I stopped, for I knew David; I saw his mind now as plain as a snake-trail through thick dust. Uriah the Hittite had come to him with ten well-armed men, and fought well for David the king. Uriah was of more importance to the king
than a woman he had already possessed and tired of. But that I had known already; David cared nothing for Bathsheba. It was not the proof of that carelessness that made my skin cold.
than a woman he had already possessed and tired of. But that I had known already; David cared nothing for Bathsheba. It was not the proof of that carelessness that made my skin cold.
Forty times forty David had sworn he would give me anything I asked, so long as I walked queenly and obedient.
“anything, Michal; you have only to ask, ask, and it will be granted. The king’s word on it.
”I had kept my part of that bargain; why did David now seem to set his vow aside?
“anything, Michal; you have only to ask, ask, and it will be granted. The king’s word on it.
”I had kept my part of that bargain; why did David now seem to set his vow aside?
Was Uriah worth more to David than I? I looked into David’s face; his eyes slid away and would not meet mine.
I did not weep or wail or revile him; I tried to think as David might. David had not yet said he would not grant this. Why, then, had he spoken so? Why hint that he might deny me what I had asked?
Think as David might
—Even if Uriah did not value Bathsheba for herself, no man wished to be dishonored in his own house; Uriah might give Bathsheba to David, but the hurt to Uriah’s pride would fester. Uriah was a good soldier, worthy of the captaincy he had been given. David would not risk losing Uriah’s goodwill—and his well-armed men—over Bathsheba.
—Even if Uriah did not value Bathsheba for herself, no man wished to be dishonored in his own house; Uriah might give Bathsheba to David, but the hurt to Uriah’s pride would fester. Uriah was a good soldier, worthy of the captaincy he had been given. David would not risk losing Uriah’s goodwill—and his well-armed men—over Bathsheba.
And there was another thing: if the king were known to set his hands upon his soldier’s women while they went out to fight and die, who would serve him? Yes, that was what David must be thinking now. It was a great pity he had not thought of that before he had broken Bathsheba’s foolish loving heart.
But Uriah’s goodwill would be lost once the Law took Bathsheba and she named her child’s father. Then all Jerusalem would know, and soon all Israel and Judah. And men forgave David much; I had seen that many times. But this they would not forget. Sn lear Bathsheba’s good name with mud and David too would be besmirched.
The cold lifted from my skin; I had been wrong, I thought. David would not deny me this—but this time even David had been caught in his own coils. No man likes to look a fool, even to himself Yes, I thought David would do as I wished after all. But
what I asked must be done without hurt to Uriah’s pride; I remembered that Uriah was ambitious.
what I asked must be done without hurt to Uriah’s pride; I remembered that Uriah was ambitious.
I smiled, and put my hand on David’s. “We are not children, David—you are the king, and all eyes follow your deeds.”
He knew what I meant; I saw his eyes flicker. There was no way that Uriah would not know that David had lain with Bathsheba; Uriah had eyes and ears—and Bathsheba’s neighbors had eyes and tongues.
“Great deeds,” I added with a sidelong glance. “Bathsheba was married more than a year to Uriah with no sign of a child—until you went to her.”
David smiled again; that is one flattery all men swallow easily. I only told truth, after all—David got sons as easily as songs, except on me. Then I laughed, and slanted my painted eyes at him, and told him of his fine new daughter, the Lady Teshura’s child.
That pleased him too—a lusty man, as well as a great king. I knew how David liked to see himself. I had held up the mirror; now I had only to let him shine upon himself For a heartbeat I saw myself too in that mirror. David’s harlot begging gifts from him, as he once had sworn I would—was anything worth granting David that?
But I already knew the answer. And so I praised David’s prowess, his kindness, his wisdom—and then I spoke again of Bathsheba.
“Poor girl,” David said. But it fed his pride to think of her sick with love for him. “But what can I do? She is married to one of my good captains—a man who has fought well for me, and shed his blood for Yahweh’s cause—”
I longed to say that he might have thought of that before he lay with his good captain’s pretty wife, but I did not. “I beg of you, lord—can you think of nothing for poor Bathsheba? Once she is known to be with child she will be dragged before the judges and questioned in the marketplace—”
And she would name the king, and she would be believed. David knew that; I could see the knowledge in his eyes. So I waited.
“I cannot take another man’s wife from his house—”
I kept my lips closed over the words I wished to spit at him.
David’s scruples were like his songs; written anew for each occasion. I looked away, past him, so that he would see nothing in my eyes. Behind the gilded throne, the cat still hunted birds through painted reeds.
David’s scruples were like his songs; written anew for each occasion. I looked away, past him, so that he would see nothing in my eyes. Behind the gilded throne, the cat still hunted birds through painted reeds.
“All I ask, lord, is that she be safe from the Law. Her husband has been gone so long even the kindest could not think the child his.”
“And well-side gossip is not kind. Tell me, how many months gone is she?”
“No more than two—perhaps a little less.”
David was silent a moment; then he smiled, all kind indulgence. “Then I will send for her husband. I need fresh news from Rabbah, and Uriah is a good soldier, deserving of time spent in the comfort of his own house—and bed.”
An ardent soldier stopping even one night at home with his young wife—who then could say for certain that a child, however early come, was not truly of that house and lineage? Uriah would almost surely know the truth later; ill news always spills, and Uriah, too, could reckon nine moons upon his fingers.
But I thought Uriah would hold his tongue; Uriah was an ambitious man. If the scandal could be made uncertain, be made all a matter of gossip and guesses, if his wife were known still to be Queen Michal’s dearest friend—why, who else would believe the whispers, after a time? Thanks to David, all the kingdom knew I loved the king to the point of madness; would I welcome Bathsheba in my courtyard if she had been loved by David?
Yes, the scheme would work; once again David’s own tale-spinning would provide proof of what had never been. It was like biting into an unhoneyed lemon to grant that, and use it.
But
this
false song would save Bathsheba from the judges and the stones. I was content with that; I praised David once again for his mercy and wisdom; I kissed his hands.
this
false song would save Bathsheba from the judges and the stones. I was content with that; I praised David once again for his mercy and wisdom; I kissed his hands.
“No, it is you who are merciful, Michal.” David smiled, and put his hands upon my shoulders, and kissed me upon the mouth. “You say there is still no sign
you
are with child?”
you
are with child?”
My mouth was thick-painted with carmine; I barely felt his
lips on mine. I shook my head. “No. Not yet. But do not despair, David. Yahweh will give me your son. I know it.”
lips on mine. I shook my head. “No. Not yet. But do not despair, David. Yahweh will give me your son. I know it.”
David smiled, all kingly confidence, and kissed me again. “I know you pray for my son nightly—and we both know Yahweh answers prayers. We will have this, too.”
And then I went away. Behind me I heard a rush and clamor as the men who had waited upon the queen’s pleasure surged back to their places. I did not look back; I thought of David believing I longed to hold his son cradled within my arms, and I smiled.
Yes, David, you are king indeed. But you cannot see what lies behind my eyes.
Yes, David, you are king indeed. But you cannot see what lies behind my eyes.
In my own courtyard, Bathsheba was sitting as I had left her; her veil was damp with tearstains and the fringed end of her sash was twisted into knots. “Michal! Is—is the king—?”
I took her hands and spoke briskly. “No, he is not coming—not now, and just as well; he must not see you like this. You have been weeping and rubbing your eyes until they are red as—no, do not cry again, my love, all is well. Come into the garden with me, and we will talk there.”
Like my courtyard, my garden too had a fountain; unlike my courtyard, my garden was quiet, away from prying eyes. Anyone who entered must come through the garden gate; anyone who sat beside the fountain must see whoever came. A quiet place, a safe place. What was said among the lilies and roses of the queen’s garden could not be overheard.
When Bathsheba and I sat shielded by falling water, I told her I had gone to the king. I did not tell her all that had been said.
“Was he—was the king pleased?” Bathsheba’s eyes begged for comfort; I smiled.
“What man would not be pleased? And David is fond of all his children.” That was true enough—an easy fondness, as if they were pets. A large, loving family, such as King David liked to see about him; did he never think that boys became men, and girls women?
“And—oh, Michal, what did he say? Please, please tell me, or I shall die.”
“And—oh, Michal, what did he say? Please, please tell me, or I shall die.”
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