Authors: India Edghill
Queenmaker (27 page)
But I was wrong; Nathan knew nothing. Only pride and anger fed his words.
“I say you mock Yahweh and me!” Nathan was red-faced and panting, as if he had run far and hard. He pointed his staff at David. “Heed well my words, O King!”
For a moment David said nothing. Men began to turn to one another, and whisper, and look to see what the king would do now. Never before had the prophet spoken loud against the king—what did this mean?
“If I have sinned, I am heartily sorry for it,” David said. I knew his voice too well; I knew he smiled, even if no man could tell it. “Come, Nathan, sit beside me until I have finished here—then you must tell me how I may make amends. Bring a stool for the prophet; make haste, do not keep him standing here.”
A man ran to bring a stool and set it beside the throne. David held out his hand, showing Nathan where he might sit.
Nathan hesitated, then walked toward the throne. “No. I will stand, upright in Yahweh’s eyes.”
“Stand, then,” said David. “But when you tire, you must sit beside me, as I said.” Then David lifted his head, and spoke to the assembled men once more. “Now come, who speaks next?”
“You see?” I said, and clenched my hands to stop their trembling. “It is nothing, Bathsheba—”
“My child—the prophet said my child will die. Oh, Michal—”
“Your child will not die. Dry your eyes, Bathsheba, and do not think of it. Come, and I will give you wine and fruit, and we will forget this. It is nothing, nothing—only empty words.”
I rose then, and made Bathsheba come away with me. I looked back, once, at the throne below us. David sat tall upon his throne, giving justice. Beside the king’s throne stood the prophet Nathan, waiting at the king’s command.
Later I saw that day for what it truly was: the day power slid from prophet’s hand to king’s, a harlot spurning a good man for a wealthy one.
For it was not the priests and the prophets who had brought riches and power to Israel—it was King David. It was David who had brought back the Ark; it was David who had captured fields and cities. It was David who bestowed gifts upon the priests, and gave them a place at the king’s table. It was David the priests praised, and the people followed.
Nathan had wished to warn David that he was king only by Yahweh’s will, and could still be brought low if he offended. Samuel had brought King Saul down for lesser crimes.
But Nathan was not Samuel—and King David was not King Saul. Samuel had chosen Saul as king. David had chosen Nathan as chief prophet. David with his own hands had given Samuel’s staff into Nathan’s keeping.
King David had given Nathan honor. Great honor. But honor was not power.
How it had happened I did not know—and I think Nathan knew no more than I. But now it was King David who held power over the people and the kingdom.
Now the king ruled; ruled as Samuel had long ago foretold.
The prophet Nathan was left with only empty words.
But Nathan’s words did not seem so empty some months later, on the night Bathsheba labored to bring David’s child into the world. That night Nathan’s words were nearly cruel truth.
The birthing room was crowded with sweating bodies; the air swayed with heat, cloyed with burning oils and incense. I could scarcely draw breath; Bathsheba, who labored on the birthing chair, suffered even more.
I sat beside her and held her hand. Her skin was cold, for all the room’s oppressive heat. “Soon,” I said. “It will not be long now. Hageet, give her more wine—a mouthful only.”
Bathsheba looked at me with the fearful, hoping eyes of one who labors for the first time to bring forth a child. “Oh, Michal—I shall die. I know I shall die.”
“You will not,” I said firmly.
She clung to me. “I, and the child—the prophet Nathan said—you remember—”
“Nathan is no midwife. I tell you all is well; you will have an easy birth and a fine child.” I wiped her forehead with a damp cloth. “Remember what I told you, and do not worry—fretting only makes birth harder for you and the babe. It will soon be over, and then you will care nothing for all this.”
I did not lie to her; I had seldom seen an easier labor. All was as it should be and all went as it should, until the child was born. Easy born, too, as I had promised—though I knew Bathsheba would not believe that.
The child was a boy, and perfectly formed. But he was white and still; his lips and tiny fingers tinged with dusky blue. Death-shadowed.
The midwife showed him and the other women drew away, cautious. Bathsheba was the king’s newest wife and the queen’s dearest friend; no one wished it said she or her child had come to harm under their hands. And there was the prophet Nathan’s curse
upon this birth as well—causes enough for them to slide away, and leave the work and blame to others.
upon this birth as well—causes enough for them to slide away, and leave the work and blame to others.
So they began to wail, enjoying their lamentations too much. “Dead—born dead, as Nathan foretold—oh, who will tell the king?”
“Be silent! Give him to me!” I had seen this before; perhaps the child could be saved, if I were quick.
Once I had the child in my own hands I held him by his heels and shook him hard, as if he were a chicken to be plucked. The women gasped and looked at me like sheep, with the same stupid malice. It would make a fine tale if the Lady Bathsheba’s son died of Queen Michal’s tending.
But I cared nothing for whispers, and much for Bathsheba. A son would give her standing in the king’s house, even if she were not loved. David would not set aside the mother of his son.
“Stop your wailing—bring a basin of cold water, and some hot wine—quickly, before I throw you all to the guard for flogging! And someone tend to the Lady Bathsheba!”
I rubbed the child’s arms and legs with my bare hands, blew into his cool mouth, willing the maids to hasten with what I needed. The basin was brought, and the wine; I set the babe into the cold water for a moment. “Soak a cloth in the wine.”
I lifted him out of the water and laid him upon my lap. I took the dripping cloth and squeezed hot wine between his lips.
I was not sure; I had seen a child saved this way, once. I had seen more who were not. But then his still body grew warm under my hands, and moved as he drew his first breath.
“He is not dead,” I said, and knew triumph as I heard him cry, a triumph as hot and heady as any victorious warrior’s. “Rejoice; King David has a fine new son.”
As I spoke I rubbed the child softly to bring the blood to his hands and feet. He was small, and wriggled and mewed in my arms like a hungry kitten.
My heart beat hard swan’s-wings in my breast; I held him to my cheek and brushed my lips over his soft damp hair. It was pale, and framed his head with sun as it dried. He opened his eyes; they
were like cloudy milk, as babes’ are, but still it seemed as if he looked, and knew me.
were like cloudy milk, as babes’ are, but still it seemed as if he looked, and knew me.
And then Bathsheba called for him. She was his mother; I set the child naked in her arms. She smiled and cooed like a setting dove, but I do not think she had the same fierce desire to keep him against her heart that made my arms ache.
He is mine
, I thought.
But for me, he would never have been born, or drawn a breath. He is mine, not hers.
, I thought.
But for me, he would never have been born, or drawn a breath. He is mine, not hers.
“ … and she bare a son, and he called his name Solomon … .”
—II Samuel 12:24
Nathan salved his honor as a prophet by proclaiming that Yahweh had softened toward David, and that the child should be known as Jedidiah, as Yahweh loved him well. Too late; the child had already been named Solomon—peace. The choice was David’s public defiance of Nathan’s curse.
“For see, the babe lives, in spite of Nathan’s words. If the rest of his words fall out as true, then I and mine shall dwell in peace and riches all the rest of our days.” David looked upon his newest son, and smiled. Solomon was a quiet and pretty child, and did not wail in his father’s face, so David was well pleased with him, and promised Bathsheba new bracelets of amber and coral, and whatever else she might desire.
“I desire only that my lord should look upon me with favor,” Bathsheba told him. She meant those words with all her heart, but David held such gifts as hearts careless in his keeping.
“A very proper speech, Bathsheba, but women always want some new bauble or other and you must not be shy of asking—none of my other women are, save only my modest clever queen.”
“Wisdom is better than rubies,” I said sharply, for I knew his words had hurt Bathsheba. “But the king is right, Bathsheba—he should reward you for the gift of peace you have brought his house.” I took Solomon from David’s arms and cradled him close to my
heart, while his father and mother laughed at my small jest upon the child’s name.
heart, while his father and mother laughed at my small jest upon the child’s name.
Solomon’s eyes were clear and round as a little owl’s as he stared at me. He did not seem puzzled by life, as other babes did. I put my finger to his small soft mouth; he sucked at it.
“He wants the breast, Michal—give him here, to me.” Bathsheba took Solomon from me and made a fuss over unpinning her clothing and putting the child to suck. “See how strongly he pulls, lord—”
“Yes, yes, he is a wonder. Each son is like the first, a sign of Yahweh’s grace,” said David. But he was not looking at Bathsheba or the child, and did not stay long after. He had seen many of his sons take their mother’s milk, after all.
Bathsheba’s eyes filled with tears; a well that did not quite overflow. I stroked the top of Solomon’s head where the bones were still soft to the hand, and bade her look at how lustily he clutched her gown.
“And do not trouble yourself over David—he did not mean to cause you pain.” I knew this was true; King David no longer thought of Bathsheba, save as another woman in his house—no less and no more than that. Bathsheba was wise enough to know it, and foolish enough to deny cold truth to herself
“He is the king—he is busy, and much troubled. But he is pleased with Solomon—with our son.”
I answered the plea behind her words. “Who would not be pleased with Solomon? He is worth all David’s other sons together, as you are worth all his other wives. David is no fool; he will know this. Ah, look, our Solomon has finished—give him to me and I will rub his back, or he will be colicky, and not sleep.”
And look to your son for your heart’s comfort, Bathsheba,
I thought as Solomon’s small head lay heavy on my shoulder, and he slept.
Look to your son for love, for you will never have it from his father.
I thought as Solomon’s small head lay heavy on my shoulder, and he slept.
Look to your son for love, for you will never have it from his father.
But I knew Bathsheba still grieved for the days when she had only to lift her veil to bring King David to his knees. Her pain
would pass; I knew it would pass. But I knew, too, that she would not listen to me yet.
would pass; I knew it would pass. But I knew, too, that she would not listen to me yet.
And so I said nothing.
Long after, when I was old and thought back upon those years when Solomon was young, I did not see them as a whole. They were like beads strung upon golden thread. The thread was my life in King David’s house; some of the beads gleamed jewel bright—Solomon smiled upon me, and reached out his small plump hand.
Some of the beads were coarse and dull—King David smiled upon me, and poured words into my ears that I wished I did not hear. But a bargain had been struck; I was his now, or so he thought.
Once again David spoke to me in darkened rooms, by night. On and on, all the words he dared not speak by day.
All the words he would never sing: betrayal, and lies, and murder.
How a crown had been won, and a city, and a kingdom.
And I would lie there beside him, watching the little lamp flames dance shadows across painted walls, and listen.
“Once you asked how I—I, David of Bethlehem—did all this.” David flung his arm wide, offering all the wonders of Jerusalem and the land beyond.
Once; I no longer cared. “Yes. Once I asked.”
“A locked riddle; I will show you the key.” He leaned close, to speak low into my ear. “Why labor with your own hands when others will labor in your stead?”
“Why indeed?” And then, when I saw he desired more, “What others, David?”
David kissed my hair and touched my breast, coaxing. “Can you not guess? Come, try.”
I shook my head. “I cannot.”
“Well, then, I will tell you, since you ask it.” David pressed close against me and spoke soft into my hair. “The Philistines. Ah, you see?—you still are not so cunning as I.”
I stared at him; in the lamplight his face was dark fire. “The Philistines?”
“Yes, my queen. The Philistines gave all this into my hands as a gift. Did you think my army so strong then that the Philistines could not destroy it if they chose?”
“But why?”
“Perhaps because they loved me well—who can say?” David toyed with my hair and looked slantwise at me. “Ah, Michal-did you think two hundred Philistines marched to Gibeah with me for the love of my bright eyes—or yours?”
“Two hundred Philistines … .
” My bride-price. David standing tall before the gate of Saul’s little city, calling up to him … .
” My bride-price. David standing tall before the gate of Saul’s little city, calling up to him … .
David stroked my hair again. “There are great empires to the east; the Philistines press against the sea. A king set between—a friendly king, to keep the peace between, as Saul did not—”
As Saul could not, because of Samuel.
Yes, that would be worth much to the Philistines. A king set like a painted doll upon a gilded throne. “So King David dances to Philistine tunes?”
“While Philistine music pleases him,” David said, and laughed, and kissed me.
I closed my eyes and thought of two hundred Philistine warriors set within Saul’s army, and of David tuning his songs for Philistine ears. In the dark behind my eyelids King David danced again before the Ark.
Yahweh’s Ark, which the Philistines had given into King David’s hands.
“Look, Michal—see how strongly Solomon grasps the harp. No, no, my love—see, you must touch the strings so, to make music.”
Bathsheba pulled Solomon’s tiny fingers across the strings of the child’s harp David had given. Olive-wood set with amber; no one could call King David a miserly father. “There! Music!”
Bathsheba pulled Solomon’s tiny fingers across the strings of the child’s harp David had given. Olive-wood set with amber; no one could call King David a miserly father. “There! Music!”
“Music as fine as King David’s,” I said. I looked at Bathsheba’s dark head bent over Solomon’s bright one. Solomon would not grow to be like David; that I swore. I smiled. “And he will make finer yet, when he is grown. What was David thinking of, to give him a harp now? He is not yet half a year old!”
Bathsheba protested. “It was kind of the king to send him so fine a present. See, Solomon wishes to sing and play, like his father.”
Solomon smiled happily and yowled like a wild cat, and hit the harp-strings, hard.
“Yes,” I said. “As fine a harper as his father.”
Bathsheba laughed, then, and took the little harp away. “You are right—I will set this aside until Solomon is older. No, no, my love—you may not have it now.”
“You must learn to wait for what you desire,” I told Solomon, and scooped him up into my arms and kissed his soft sweet cheek. And Bathsheba gave him a coral to chew on instead of the king’s gift, and so he was satisfied.
“The king of Ascalon has asked for one of my daughters for his son. What do you think of that, my queen?” David smiled; lamp-lit shadows flickered across his mouth like serpent tongues.
“That it is a great honor. Which daughter?”
“Why, do you think he cares? Any king’s daughter will do to seal a bargain. Come near to me, my queen; winter nights are chill.”
“I am not cold.”
“Ah, Michal—did you think I saw
you
so? Never. You are a jewel past price.”
you
so? Never. You are a jewel past price.”
“Not past price.” I rose up upon my elbow to stare down at
him. “I know what you paid for me. What price did the Philistines set upon Saul’s daughter, David?”
him. “I know what you paid for me. What price did the Philistines set upon Saul’s daughter, David?”
David smiled again and took my chin into his fingers. “You are a king’s daughter indeed, Michal. You know.”
“I know more than I once did.” I knew what Zhurleen had told me in an idle moment—that the Philistines counted the mother’s blood as great as the father’s. If there were no son to mount the throne, the last king’s daughter held the crown in her own hands; a bride-gift to her husband.
“Then you know how you are valued, Michal. You are more to me than rubies. Much more.”
I knew, now. I was more than rubies; I was the crown. Sacred oil and a prophet’s blessing were good; a king’s daughter and Philistine gold were better.
Two strings to his bow, always … .
Two strings to his bow, always … .
“Yes,” I said. “I know how much I am to you, David. I will never forget how much; that I swear to you.” And I drew back, out of the lamp’s light, hiding my eyes behind my lashes.
“See what I have for you, my heart—see, here is a new ball for you to play with.” And I held out a globe of scarlet leather painted with golden stars.
Solomon sat propped upon cushions; I tended him while Bathsheba bathed in her own rooms. Now he watched the ball, his solemn eyes stretched wide. “Yes, my love, all for you—here, take it.”
I set the ball into Solomon’s chubby hands; he stared at the toy and then tried to stuff it into his mouth. The ball was too large; he chewed upon its bright leather, and then spat it away.
“You do not like it? No? Then come to me, my love—come to Michal.” And I sat beside him upon the cushions, and took him onto my lap. “I will sing you a song about a little bear-cub—how will you like that?”
Solomon smiled and grasped my hands with strong little fists;
as I sang and rocked him in my arms, he sucked happily upon my fingers.
as I sang and rocked him in my arms, he sucked happily upon my fingers.
“Hiram of Tyre built this king’s house for me—did you know that, Michal?”
“Yes, I knew.”
“Do you know why? Do you know why the king of Tyre did this thing for me?”
“No. Why did the king of Tyre do this thing for you?”
David stroked my arm. “Because he had the Philistines at his back, and would put me at theirs. I am in high favor with the Philistine kings, you know.” He paused, to let me marvel.
“Yes, I know.”
“And Hiram is almost as shrewd as I; he suspected what I might become. And so he built me this fine house—as fine as his own. A gift, from one great king to another.” Again he waited.
After a moment, I said, “And now you are as great as the king of Tyre.”
“Greater,” David said, embracing me as loving as if I were the throne itself. “Much greater, as the lion is greater than the peacock.”
Obedient, I put my arms around him. On the walls beyond the bed, painted lions paced among endless shadows.
My garden, too, held shadows; sun-shadows for a boy to play with. Sunlight through leaves danced shadow-leaves upon the grass. Solomon crawled after them, patting at the moving shapes.
“Look, Michal—see how fast and strong he is! No, no, Solomon—you must not put that in your mouth, my love, it is dirty—”
“Do not tell him so, Bathsheba—take it from him.” And I
swooped Solomon up and plucked the pebble from his small mouth. His face puckered up; I kissed his neck, and blew upon his warm skin, and he laughed instead.
swooped Solomon up and plucked the pebble from his small mouth. His face puckered up; I kissed his neck, and blew upon his warm skin, and he laughed instead.
“Ma!” he said, and wriggled like an eel to be set free again.
“Listen!” Bathsheba caught him from my arms. “A word! Say it again, Solomon—come, speak for your mother—”
And Solomon smiled sweetly, and pressed his mouth closed, and would not utter another sound for all our coaxing. At last I laughed and bade Bathsheba set him down again. “He will speak in his own good time—and perhaps it was not a word at all.”
“It was,” Bathsheba insisted. “He called you ‘mother’—I heard it clearly. Oh, he is so very clever!”
“No,” I said, cold beneath my skin. “You are wrong; it was baby-noise only.” For no matter how I loved him, Solomon was Bathsheba’s son, and not truly mine. His love belonged to her, and not to me.
Bathsheba set Solomon down upon the grass again; he crawled off hastily, busy as an ant. Bathsheba slid her soft hand into mine. “He knows you love him as much as I, Michal. He knows he has two mothers.”
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