Authors: India Edghill
Queenmaker (3 page)
“No, David, do not go. This is my little sister Michal, of whom I have told you much. Come in, king’s daughter, and meet a shepherd’s son, if you are not too proud.”
Jonathan wished only to tease, but I was too young for such a jest not to slice deep. I grew hot, and said that I would go, as they were busy with men’s matters.
Jonathan knew me well, and saw that he had hurt me, and so he rose and came to put an arm about my shoulders. “No, no—I am sorry I teased you. Come and greet David, who is as a brother to me. I would have him dear to you as well.”
All words scattered beyond my grasp once more, and so I looked down at the flagstones. I could not bear to look at David, for I knew he must think me a silly and tiresome thing, and wish me gone.
“If you are my brother, Jonathan, then Michal must be my sister, and I will be glad of it—for my father has many sons, but no daughter left at home to tend us.” David did not sound as if he mocked, or thought me foolish, or wished me gone. He took me by the hand and made me sit beside him. “Stay with us, and we will talk and laugh together, and you will smile for me. Come, be my obedient sister in this.”
“I will be as obedient to you as I am to my true brothers,” I vowed. I would have sworn anything, done anything he asked of me. That night I could imagine no greater joy than to have David call me sister.
Jonathan choked on his wine, and laughed. I would have been angry, but then David laughed too. His laughter did not sting, but somehow called mine as well; the three of us sat there laughing until Jonathan’s servants came to see what caused the noise. We must have sounded like jackals in the hills.
And when the laughter stopped I stayed with them, and listened as David and Jonathan talked. When I asked questions, I found that David would not speak of himself, any more than Jonathan would do his own boasting. But each would willingly praise the other, and so I heard much to their credit—although each would deny he deserved any; it was all the other. To hear David tell it, he had done nothing in all his life to earn any man’s praise.
“What, Michal? Goliath? Oh, that was nothing—a giant is dull-witted, and slow. There was never any danger. I saw no reason for King Saul to waste his time on so unworthy a foe; I was enough.”
“You were so clever, to think of the stones and the sling!”
“It was habit, nothing more. A sling is what I used to chase the bears and the wolves when I tended my father’s sheep, and so comes readily to my hand. And the giant was no more than another beast to be kept away. Anyone could have done it.”
Later still he sang for us, just for Jonathan and me. That was the first time I heard the song he had made about the slaying of the giant Goliath. “From the claw of the lion did Yahweh deliver me; from the paw of the bear did Yahweh deliver me; from the spear of the giant would Yahweh deliver me. My trust did I place in Yahweh; five smooth stones did Yahweh put into my hand … .”
David sang that, and he sang other songs, too. The servants came to light the torches before we realized how dark it was, and how late.
Jonathan sent me off before the women came seeking me there. I kissed him, and I kissed David too, as he was my brother now. I was bold enough when I set my lips to his cheek, but then I grew shy again, and ran away before he could say anything.
“And Michal Saul’s daughter loved David … .”
—I Samuel 18:20
That was the start; it sounds little enough, but it was much to me. For I was the youngest child in my father’s house, and treated by all but David as if I still must be held by the hand to take my steps. But I would soon be twelve and thought myself nearly a woman, so I found such treatment hard to bear. David knew it and was always kind; he never teased me as if I were a baby, as my brothers did, but spoke to me as if I were grown, and sensible.
He and Jonathan were together always, and often they would let me come too. I rode beside David in his chariot when they raced; I chased them through the rocks to the fishing pool; I sat with them on the rooftop in the long twilights. I was David’s beloved little sister, as I was Jonathan’s. I had his soft words and his small gifts and his hands tugging my braids.
My sister Merab had his eyes and his heart.
I knew that from the time I came upon them talking alone together in the gallery. I heard David’s voice, and Merab’s laugh, sounds like soft breeze on hot summer nights. When I ran around the corner I saw that they stood so close they cast only one shadow on the wall.
At my noise one shadow became two. David turned toward me and smiled, and Merab turned away and put her hands to her shoulder-brooches.
I pretended I had seen nothing, but I was not so young as
that, and I knew what it meant. Merab was already a woman to delight men’s eyes; even I thought her fair. Of course David would love her.
that, and I knew what it meant. Merab was already a woman to delight men’s eyes; even I thought her fair. Of course David would love her.
I did not wonder if she loved him. I knew she must. Everyone loved David.
I thought my father loved him too. How could he not? David was the raid-leader who always won; whose victories brought glory to King Saul, and to Israel. There was a new victory-chant sung in the streets now: “Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands!”
Everyone sang it; I, too, sang—and not once did I think how my father felt, to hear those words even from his daughter’s lips.
But David was more than a great warrior. David was the songmaster whose words brought glory to Yahweh. Hymns of praise, tales of love, psalms to Yahweh—nothing was too great or small for David’s songs. He was loved as much for his songs as for his victories; people sang them in the streets. David used words as well as he used sword and spear.
And he loved Saul as a son does, plain for all to see. Even when my father fell into the first of his mad frenzies, so that he thought David his enemy, David said no word against him. My father shouted and brandished his spear, and threatened to pin David against the wall, and those who watched thought he would surely kill him.
But David sang his way out of danger that time, and my father was sorry for his unjust anger. It was not long after that he promised David my sister Merab for his wife, when the time was ripe.
It was a promise that drew my father much praise from the people, but some of my brothers did not like it. “Who is this man, to marry our sister—to marry the king’s daughter?”
My father would not listen, and shouted them down. If he
was not too proud to own David, they should not be. And he reminded us all that he was king by chance alone, and his father had been a humble man.
was not too proud to own David, they should not be. And he reminded us all that he was king by chance alone, and his father had been a humble man.
“And who is your sister, that David is too low for her to wed? Is this Philistia, then, and she a queen? I say David is to have Merab to wife, and there’s an end to it! I have my reasons, and they are better than yours! Who is king here, you or I?”
It was how he ended all arguments now; my brothers left him alone after that. Few wished to tempt his mad angers.
It was left so; David was to marry Merab and be my brother in truth. I tried to take some comfort from that. But I was growing too old to love David as a good sister loves her brother.
Still, a brother’s love was better than nothing—or so I told myself.
Later I knew that by the time Merab was ripe for marriage our father was ripe for madness. But the summer that I was twelve I only knew that he was breaking his word, and I could see no reason for it. Merab was not to be given to David after all, but to a man named Adriel, of Meholah.
I heard the news as I passed some maidservants gossiping in the kitchen-court. I stopped and made them tell me the tale; they swore that it was true.
“I do not believe it!” I said, and ran to find Merab.
I found Merab in her room, holding a length of cloth up to the sunlight through the window. “Look, little sister,” Merab said. “See what our father has given me! The best Egyptian byssus, and not yet sewn upon—I shall be the first to wear it! Only see how fine—and there is enough for my bride-dress, if I am careful with my cutting.”
I cared nothing for that. “Oh, Merab, I have just heard such a tale—that you are not to marry David, but some old man no one has ever heard of!”
“Oh, is that all? Why yes, I am to marry Adriel—and many have heard of him, I assure you.” Merab stroked the smooth white cloth and smiled.
“But why?” I asked, flinging myself into Merab’s arms and weeping for what must be her sorrow. “You are so brave—but O my sister, how can you bear it?”
To my astonishment, she laughed, and pushed me away. “Bear what, little fool? Should I weep because I am to wed a man with many flocks, and many servants, instead of my father’s shield-bearer? Now dry your eyes, and help me sort this linen.”
I caught up a fold of my skirt and wiped my eyes. “But Merab, Adriel is so old! How can you take him instead of David?”
Merab thrust a pile of folded linens into my arms. “Because our father bids me do so, of course, and because I am not a fool!” Then she looked at me and put her arms around me, heedless of the bundle between us. “It is kind of you to worry over me, little sister, but what is past is past, and I shall be happy enough. Adriel is not so old as all that, and they say he is a good man. And he has paid our father a pretty bride-price for me, and will send him five armed fighting men as well. He will know how to value me when I am in his house.”
She looked self-satisfied as a cat in sunlight. I could not believe she cared so little for David. I twisted out of her arms and flung the linens back onto the cedar-wood chest. “Merab! What of David?”
Merab tossed her head; the thin gold leaves shimmered in her hair. “Well, and what of him? Who is he that he should wed the daughter of Saul the king? Adriel is a worthy man—”
“A wealthy one, you mean!” I fancied this an arrow that would sting.
“Oh, hold your tongue!” Merab looked bored and cross, and not stung at all by my words. “Adriel is to have me and there is an end to it. Now look what you have done—half the sheets on the floor and all to be folded again! Really, Michal, you are far too old to run wild as you do—”
But I did not stay to hear the rest. I was out of her room, running through the house in a way that would have brought reproof even from Jonathan, who loved me well. But I did not care for that now. I had to find David.
David had gone up to the rooftop, to sit alone under the arbor of vines and play his harp. When I ran up the stairs and stopped to catch my breath at the top, I thought I had never heard sadder notes fall from harp-strings. Then he set the harp aside, and looked at me, and I knew that I would never see anything more beautiful than his face.
“Why, Michal!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
I could not answer, for I did not know.
“Come and sit by me, sister of Jonathan, and rest. You’ve been running in the house again—but I promise I will not scold. Sit, and I will play for you.”
I obeyed, crossing the rooftop to sink down by his feet. “Oh, David,” I gasped, “I have just come from Merab. I am so sorry! How could my father do such a thing to you?”
David shrugged, and the dappled light through the grapevines danced over his skin; shadows pale gold and dark. “Saul is a king, and kings are driven by reasons only Yahweh knows.”
“But he promised you Merab!”
“But Adriel promised him five armed men, five talents of silver, and five hundred sheep.” David ran his fingers over the strings of his harp. A ripple of music lay between us, then silence, and sun hot on the stones.
“And who am I,” he said at last, “to raise my eyes to a king’s daughter? I am only the eighth son of a humble man. I am only David, son of Jesse of Bethlehem. I have never pretended otherwise. And I shall serve King Saul well, whether he gives me one of his daughters to wife or reviles me in the marketplace.”
His words fell on me like rain in the desert, bringing hidden
wonders to life. “David—” There was a band tight about my chest, almost like a pain. “King Saul has two daughters. Merab—and Michal.”
wonders to life. “David—” There was a band tight about my chest, almost like a pain. “King Saul has two daughters. Merab—and Michal.”
David stared at me until I grew hot and looked at my hands—the lattice of vines above me—the hem of my gown—anything but David.
“You, Michal? I had not thought of you. I never thought that you—You are too young.” But there was a note of doubt in his voice that gave me hope and the courage to go on.
“I shall soon be thirteen! And I would make you a good wife, David! I will learn to be meek, and biddable, and—and I love you well.”
“As a sister loves her brother.” Soft words, rueful words. Gentle sorrow rippled under them, or regret.
“No,” I said. I wished to say much more, to tell David all my heart felt for him, but I could not find the words. “No,” I said again. That was all.
I waited then for his answer, but he did not make one. He put his fingers to his harp once more and looked out over the dusty hills. He seemed to be waiting, perhaps for Yahweh’s voice.
“Saul promised you his daughter,” I added desperately, when it seemed David would not speak. “David—you would not want him to be forsworn?”
A jangle of notes from the harp. David laughed, and set the harp aside. “You argue like a prophet! But what makes you think Saul will give me Michal if he refused me Merab?”
His eyes were intent on mine, as if willing me to find the answer. And I did. “You will not ask him for me, David, I will!” Saul had many sons, but only two daughters; he was called overfond of Merab and me, for he could deny us little. “Merab does not love you, but I do—oh, David, I swear I would die for you—my father will surely give me to you, if I ask it!”
David bent and took my face between his hands; strong hands, hardened by spear and harp. “To have you love me so, Michal—never did I dare dream of such good fortune. I had feared that to you I was a brother only.”
I stared up into his eyes and was dazzled by the sun behind him. I closed my eyes against the burning light. David bent closer; a shadow-shift beyond my lashes. And then he kissed me upon the mouth.
It was not a brother’s kiss, but a lover’s, sweet and deep and strange; the rooftop seemed to wheel about me, leaving me giddy and trembling. I thought I would die of joy.
“Ask, then, daughter of Saul.” David smiled, and lightly kissed my forehead. “Ask your father to keep his promise and give me his daughter to wife.”
I should have gone to my room and combed my hair and changed my gown, and asked if my father would see me. But all that would have meant waiting, and I could not wait. I ran to him as I was and burst into his presence unannounced.
“Father, may I speak?”
It was only then that I saw my father was not alone. Abner was with him—Abner, his war-chief. I wished then that I had come another time, for Abner made me nervous. He was a man all bone and thin muscle; like the prophet Samuel, I never felt Abner saw me truly, but saw only a stone in the path. But he was called the cleverest man with a raiding party in all the tribes of Israel and Judah both. Men admired Abner, but they did not like him.
Now Abner frowned, but my father only laughed and opened his arms to me. I ran to him and he hugged me and rocked me back and forth. “So here you are—I have had half the women in the house complain of you today, little daughter! Well, well, what is it you want?”
My father was a large man, broad and strong as a bear; when he hugged me, my bones creaked. I begged him to put me down, and even remembered to apologize for interrupting him. I spoke
properly, with great dignity; in my eyes, I was a woman now. I wondered that my father did not at once see the difference in me.
properly, with great dignity; in my eyes, I was a woman now. I wondered that my father did not at once see the difference in me.
“Yes, yes, that’s all very well, daughter, but I’m very busy, so out with it. That’s the best way, eh, Abner?”
“As my lord king says,” Abner murmured, rolling his maps so that I could not see them.
I had wished to speak to my father privately; my love for David was a sacred thing. But he was impatient to return to his work, and so I forgot the pretty plea I had rehearsed and blurted it out, bald as rock.
“Father—you promised David should marry your daughter, but you have given Merab to Adriel. Give me to David instead.”
He looked at me and his face turned slowly to a dull red. But he might have calmed had Abner not said, in his dry way, “So the son of Jesse had two strings to his bow. Better that, I suppose, than five smooth stones.”
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