Authors: India Edghill
Queenmaker (31 page)
That was true; Absalom had put his exile to good use. He had tended his own lands, and given charity to all who passed by and asked it of him. He cared for friends now, and sought the good opinion of others.
Men who had seen Absalom during that half-year and spoken with him, praised him to King David. No longer a heedless boy, they said. Absalom walked meek and soft before the Law now, they said. Absalom had repented of his arrogant ways.
They said. I did not believe it.
And they said, now, that young Absalom was the next David. That, I believed.
The first spring moon waned as Absalom returned to Jerusalem. Before the new moon held the old in her arms again, Absalom rose up and led an army against his father.
It was David’s fault, as well as Absalom’s. For David still played the game he had begun long ago.
“who shall be next king?” “Why, that is not for me to say—”
Oh, David was coy as a fair maid with a fine dowry.
“who shall be next king?” “Why, that is not for me to say—”
Oh, David was coy as a fair maid with a fine dowry.
But it was no game to Absalom, who resembled his father so much—and so little.
David twisted all to his own advantage—time and over he had coaxed victory from denial and defeat. I remembered how young
David had waited and bowed aside, and always come back in the end to claim what he would have. Princess Merab was not to be his?—well then, had not King Saul another daughter? King Saul loved him not?—well then, had not Philistia a king as well? Nabal the farmer would not grant food and shelter?—well, then, had not Nabal a comely wife who would?
David had waited and bowed aside, and always come back in the end to claim what he would have. Princess Merab was not to be his?—well then, had not King Saul another daughter? King Saul loved him not?—well then, had not Philistia a king as well? Nabal the farmer would not grant food and shelter?—well, then, had not Nabal a comely wife who would?
Absalom could not endure an obstacle. If the road did not run straight beneath his chariot wheels, he thought that path forever barred to him. King David would not name him heir to the kingdom? —well, then, King David would never say the only words Absalom wished to hear.
The last time I saw Absalom was in the king’s own garden. David had called me there; I was always his chosen witness. Well, of all his great household, I was the only one he could trust. Only before Queen Michal could great David ever speak freely, say what was truly in his heart and mind. We owned each other, now.
That day we sat on a marble bench beneath an arch of roses; shade and sweetness, when the crimson roses bloomed. And Absalom came, at his father’s bidding, to speak with him—
“On matters of great import to the kingdom,” David said.
Absalom leapt agile to that lure. “Of course, Father. I am your eldest son; you know I will serve you and advise you.”
Advice, from Absalom? I looked him up and down; weighing him against a crown. Oh, Absalom was handsome, that I would grant him. All David’s children were fair of face; a royal heritage. But that was not enough.
Shining curls and broad shoulders, hot eyes and sullen mouth—that was Prince Absalom. I already knew what lay beneath that gleaming surface: ambition and greed—and murder.
Stupid murder; senseless murder. Amnon had offered to step aside, in exchange for Absalom’s aid.
‘And will you barter away a crown for Tamar’s sake?’ ‘Of course, brother—
my birthright for your
sister. Come, if you will stand our friend, I will always stand yours—’
In Absalom’s sandals, David would have known that Amnon’s love, and Tamar’s, were all the weapon that he needed to remove Amnon from the pathway to the throne. To have Tamar, Amnon would cheerfully have sworn his rights away before the priests and the people. Yes, David would have seen that cunning would serve better than a blade. Absalom was not even as clever as David.
‘And will you barter away a crown for Tamar’s sake?’ ‘Of course, brother—
my birthright for your
sister. Come, if you will stand our friend, I will always stand yours—’
In Absalom’s sandals, David would have known that Amnon’s love, and Tamar’s, were all the weapon that he needed to remove Amnon from the pathway to the throne. To have Tamar, Amnon would cheerfully have sworn his rights away before the priests and the people. Yes, David would have seen that cunning would serve better than a blade. Absalom was not even as clever as David.
So I thought as I sat and watched, and listened as David toyed with Absalom’s hopes. King Cat and Prince Mouse, David thought.
“I have heard much good of you, Absalom.”
“That pleases me, Father. I wish to show you what I can do; I am no longer a boy.”
David smiled and held out his hand. “To me you will always be my son—the child I held in my arms and rocked in the wilderness when I fled from King Saul.”
“That was long ago, Father.” Absalom answered quickly, plainly fearing to hear one of David’s tales yet again.
“Sometimes it seems so, when I look upon my sons—you, Absalom, grown into so fine a prince.”
So fine a prince, who slew his brother.
And his sister too, I thought, although that vile deed Absalom had never admitted. But once he had slain Amnon before her eyes, Absalom could not let Tamar live to speak.
And his sister too, I thought, although that vile deed Absalom had never admitted. But once he had slain Amnon before her eyes, Absalom could not let Tamar live to speak.
“King David has been granted the sons he deserves.” I smiled, and folded my hands in my lap. “All the land rejoices with him.”
Absalom looked at me, slantwise; a prince of David’s city, all oiled curls and painted eyes. David’s court copied Egypt’s, and Tyre’s; I thought suddenly of my father’s face, all leathered by sun and wind, creased by laugh lines and scars.
David laid his hand over mine. “The queen is right, Absalom. I have heard you have a care for the people now, that you sit in the courtyard and advise those who come to the king for justice?”
“Yes, Father. It is a small thing—they are simple men, and the king is so far above them—I try to help them, when I can.” Absalom suddenly knelt before David, graceful as a dancer. “And to lift even
small burdens from you. Let me help you, Father. Let me learn to rule men, as you do. I am the eldest prince.”
small burdens from you. Let me help you, Father. Let me learn to rule men, as you do. I am the eldest prince.”
Even Absalom did not quite dare demand that King David promise him the throne, but we all three knew that was what was meant by Absalom’s plea. There was a moment’s silence as David seemed to think upon Absalom’s words. A moment in which all the sound was spring breeze through rose-leaves.
Then David laughed, loud, as if he himself were a boy again. “What, have I worked hard as any servant only to set my sons to drudgery? No, no, Absalom—you are young yet. You must not think of me. A father’s joy is in his children’s happiness.”
Absalom’s face hardened; in that breath’s instant he did not look young at all. “I will try to bring you joy, then, Father.”
“You do, my son. The best of my sons.” David placed his own necklace about Absalom’s neck. “Take this, with my love—a king’s gift to a fine prince.” David would bestow turquoise and gold, but he would not say Absalom was his choice as next king. Without that, the rest meant nothing to Absalom.
So Absalom thanked his father for his gift, and then asked yet another boon of David. “I am an unworthy wretch, Father, vile in my own sight. Grant me one thing more—that I may fulfill a vow I swore when I was an exile from your house and your love.”
“Never from my love,” King David told Absalom, smiling at him, fond as a fool. “What is this vow you swore, my son?”
“To go to Hebron, to the priests there,” Absalom said; his head was bowed and his eyes hidden. “Will you give me your blessing, Father?”
“To Hebron? What have you sworn, Absalom?” I kept my words soft, a woman’s idle curiosity. No more than that.
Absalom smiled; he was all the shining prince, that day. The gold and turquoise David had set upon him were sun and sky about his throat. “I have sworn not to tell it, O Queen.”
“The vow does not matter. You know I care only for my children’s happiness and peace.” David rose and took Absalom in
his arms, and kissed him. “Go to Hebron, Absalom my son, and may you find there what you seek.”
his arms, and kissed him. “Go to Hebron, Absalom my son, and may you find there what you seek.”
So Absalom went to Hebron, to the priests there. And he went with his father’s blessing.
“And David said … Arise, and let us flee … .”
—II Samuel 15:14
It was a sweet spring morning, and so Bathsheba and I sat upon my balcony to enjoy the warm sun. Bathsheba stitched a leaf-and-berry border on Solomon’s new linen tunic; I spun. In a dozen years as King David’s queen, I had never learned to sit happily with idle hands.
Once David’s wives and concubines had laughed at me; as time had passed, and the king’s house became a true palace, and peace and simple pleasure were lost, the king began to praise the old womanly virtues. Now it was the fashion for the palace women to do a housewife’s work—or to seem to. I knew many embroidered girdles whose stitches had been being set since Solomon had lain in his swaddling bands. I said as much to Bathsheba, who laughed.
“Like Eglah and her endless border! And even if she ever knots the last stitch upon it, what use will it be?” Bathsheba inspected her own work, and frowned. “Do you know, Michal, I think I shall use blue wool to work the berries, instead of red. Do you think it will look well?”
I considered the matter, and cast my lot for blue. “Unusual, but then our Solomon is an unusual little boy. Yes, I think blue will look very well, Bathsheba.”
“Then I have only this here, and here—today’s work should see it finished.” Bathsheba looked pleased, and with good reason.
She had clever fingers for embroidery, which I did not. I did the good plain work on Solomon’s clothes; Bathsheba made them beautiful.
She had clever fingers for embroidery, which I did not. I did the good plain work on Solomon’s clothes; Bathsheba made them beautiful.
But Solomon’s tunic was not finished that day, nor did Bathsheba pick it up again to set another stitch until the spring was gone and the summer over. For even as we sat, and sewed, and chattered, news had come fleet to Jerusalem from Hebron. Absalom had indeed fulfilled a vow there.
He had had himself anointed and proclaimed as king.
Bathsheba had just set her needle once more into the linen, and I had just begun to wonder why the city-noise beyond the palace wall had grown suddenly harsh, when one of my maidservants ran out onto the balcony. The girl was young and silly and breathless—but not too breathless to shriek out her news.
“Rise up, for we must all flee, O Queen—word has just come from Hebron—Prince Absalom is calling himself king! And he even now marches upon Jerusalem with many mighty men! We must all flee lest we be raped and put to the sword!” The maid had plainly run all the way to tell us this great news at once; now she was flushed, panting and rolling her eyes like an eager mare.
“Well, do not sound so pleased about it!” I set my spindle aside and put my arms around Bathsheba, who had uttered a cry of alarm and dropped Solomon’s tunic to the floor. The embroidery threads would be a fine tangle to unravel later. “Be silent, Bathsheba—and you, Orit, tell me what has happened. And tell it plain, before I slap sense into your foolish head.”
Orit was sullen, then, but spoke plain, as I had bidden her. “Prince Absalom has made himself king. The messenger said so. And he marches with a fine army against Jerusalem.”
“Is that all?” I said, and laughed. “Well, and what if he does? Jerusalem has fine walls, and King David has an army of his own. And this time the well will be watched!” David’s men had taken the city by climbing up a forgotten tunnel to the city well, and so had come within Jerusalem’s walls. Absalom could not do the same. That trick could not be worked twice.
“The army is all for the prince, O Queen. And so the king—King David—says we are all to flee into the hills. At once!”
Bathsheba leaped up. “Solomon! I must find him! Oh, Michal!”
I saw Bathsheba was truly frightened, and I grew angry at Orit. “Nonsense!” I leaped up too, and slapped Orit, hard. She did not look so eager after that. Then I turned to Bathsheba, and smiled.
“We will go nowhere, Bathsheba—what, leave the king’s stronghold because Absalom has a pack of boys at his heels! They may come and bay at the walls as they like, and much good will it do them! Flee into the hills—I never heard such folly, and surely King David never uttered it!”
“But he did, O Queen! I swear it!” To hear Orit’s excited words, you would think the silly girl
wished
to flee before mighty armies.
wished
to flee before mighty armies.
“Be silent until you can speak calmly,” I said. I must speak to Narkis; if Orit were truly so foolish she might suit another, but she would not serve me. I walked past Orit and went to the edge of my balcony.
There I set my hands upon the wall and I looked down over Jerusalem. The streets were as crowded as if it were market-day. The noise that rose to my ears rang with the clash of metal; the morning sun flashed sparks from spearhead and shield.
The streets full of the king’s armed men; a sight to alarm the timid. I lifted my eyes and looked farther. The city gates were shut—both the inner doors and the great brass-bound outer gates.
I smiled. Let Absalom fling himself at Jerusalem’s mighty walls. We inside would be safe enough. And soon Absalom’s men would tire of following a foolish boy, and go home. David need do nothing, save set a guard upon Jerusalem’s famous well-shaft.
“Michal?” Bathsheba was worried still. She came to stand beside me; on the way she trod upon Solomon’s tunic and did not even notice. She too looked down at the warriors, and out at the city walls. And then she looked at me.
“He will forgive him again,” said Bathsheba.
Her voice was almost despairing; this, from Bathsheba! For a
moment I could not speak. Then I smiled again, and took her hand firm in mine. “No. If Absalom has truly done what Orit says he has, then David will not forgive him.” He could not.
moment I could not speak. Then I smiled again, and took her hand firm in mine. “No. If Absalom has truly done what Orit says he has, then David will not forgive him.” He could not.
I squeezed Bathsheba’s hand. “Do not worry—it is only Absalom’s folly, if indeed it is anything at all. Come, we will go and speak with King David and set your mind at ease.”
And so we left our women’s work lying there on the balcony and went to the king. I was not pleased by what I saw as we walked through the palace. Servants running this way and that, women wailing and clutching their children, clothing and jewelry piled in the corridors—as great a tumult as if invaders already plundered within the gate.
Soldiers stood at the door of David’s hall, and they did not wish to let me pass.
“I am the queen,” I said. “Let me in to the king, or you will spend the rest of your days guarding the palace midden!” I walked past, taking Bathsheba with me; the soldiers shuffled their feet and shifted their spears, but they plainly could think of no way to stop me. If they had truly been told to keep me out, they deserved flogging for incompetence.
David was with Joab. I did not like speaking with Joab there, but there was no help for it. “I have just heard a tale, O King, and I would know its truth.”
“If it’s about Prince Absalom, you may believe it, O Queen.” Joab’s face was as sour as an unripe lemon. “I told you not to trust him, David, and you would not heed me, and now see what has come of it. Well, there has been peace too long in the land, I suppose. Young men grow bored with it.”
Bathsheba flung herself upon her knees before David. “O my lord, what is to be done? How could Absalom treat you so, when you have been so kind to him?”
Joab looked down at Bathsheba and laughed; a lion’s cough.
“Because he thinks the throne will be kinder, my lady Well, he is wrong there, and I will prove it to him.”
“Because he thinks the throne will be kinder, my lady Well, he is wrong there, and I will prove it to him.”
David looked at Bathsheba, and smiled wide. “Absalom is young and his spirit runs high—well, he is a true prince, my son—”
“Have you heard what the king wishes to do?” demanded Joab, his words slashing across David’s. “He wishes us to leave Jerusalem—with all his household, mind—”
I did not heed the rest of Joab’s words; I stood there and looked upon David as if I had never before seen his face. So silly Orit had been right. I could not believe it. Leave Jerusalem and lay ourselves down before Absalom’s knife? This was no boy’s prank; this was rebellion. Was David mad?
Joab made a rude noise and looked at me. “Speak sense to him, Queen Michal. He thinks Absalom plays some silly boy’s game with him. Look you, David—this game you played with King Saul, and where is great Saul now?”
“It is true.” Once it would have torn my heart to give good counsel to David. But now if David went down, so did Prince Solomon, and Lady Bathsheba, and Queen Michal. “Joab is right, David. Absalom would play David to your Saul. And he will not be merciful, as you were.”
As merciful as David had been when he had made my father look a fool in all men’s eyes. As merciful as David had been when he abandoned my father to his demons, and lured the men of Israel to take glory at his hands. As merciful as David had been to the House of Saul—only so merciful would Absalom be to David.
But Absalom would not write songs to David’s glory, afterwards. I had known Absalom since he was a boy; Absalom would not be generous to even a fallen enemy, no, even though that charity cost him nothing.
“Ah, but I am still David, and Absalom shall learn that!” David laughed, and took Bathsheba’s hands and lifted her to her feet. “Go, find your women and pack what you would keep with you. We will be gone from Jerusalem by nightfall.”
I stared; Bathsheba gasped; Joab swore. David held up his
hand, all the king. “No, I will hear no more, Joab—do as I command. Now go, all of you, and make ready for the journey. And Joab—send Hushai to me.”
hand, all the king. “No, I will hear no more, Joab—do as I command. Now go, all of you, and make ready for the journey. And Joab—send Hushai to me.”
“David—you cannot mean this. Why should we leave Jerusalem and give ourselves into Absalom’s hands?” I could not believe David meant this; it was sheer folly, and even a woman could see that.
“Just so have I told him. Queen Michal, and he will no more listen than the stones in the wall.” Joab glared at David. “Well, you are the king, David, and so I will follow you. But you are a fool, uncle, and so I tell you!”
David laughed. “I am sly as the fox in the vineyard—do you think I know not what Absalom thinks, and how? Well, I shall humble him and teach him, and he will be all the better for the lesson.”
His eyes shone and he made his voice ring valiant; he was as hot for action as a stallion seeing the war-chariot. Not King David, but David-giant-slayer, David-hero. David the young beloved was what he would have men see. And I looked, and what I saw was a man looking to the past, not to the future. A man who was growing old.
When he was young he had humbled King Saul, calling like a dove of the rocks from the high places, taunting my father, flaunting youth and power before the mad king. So, now, would he treat his rebellious son Absalom. So thought David.
But who, this time, would learn the harsh lesson? The young warrior, or the aging king?
Yes, who would learn, and who teach? That question rang endless inside my head as Bathsheba and I walked away from King David’s chamber. David—or Absalom? Young David, some men called him … .
“I do not understand.” Bathsheba’s voice echoed plaintive in the tiled hallway.
“What is there to understand? David is—”
“I know King David is the greatest warrior in all the land, and the wisest man.” Bathsheba did not let me finish; when she was nervous or worried she chattered on like a sparrow, hardly hearing her own words. “If he says we must leave Jerusalem, then I know it is the only way. I am sorry, Michal—I know you must think I am a fool to fear where the king does not. Only—”
“No, I do not think you a fool,” I said, and took her hand. She clung to my fingers as if she were a child.
“Who is mightier than the king? Did he not defeat the Philistines, and—and the Ammonites, and—”
“And King Saul.” My words dropped clear into the air between us.
“Oh, Michal—I did not mean—”
“No,” I said. “Of course you did not. But it is true. Truth is truth whether I like it or do not.” But David had never learned that, or would not admit it if he had.
“And now he will defeat Absalom. Of course he will. But still I do not see why we must all leave Jerusalem—well, of course I do not, for I am only a woman, but—” She stopped, and looked at me hopefully. Bathsheba thought me wise.
I thought of all I might say to her—that David sought his lost youth upon this battlefield, that David had won his great victories by guile and by treachery, that David would not know truth if Yahweh himself came in all his glory and laid it plain at David’s feet. But if I said all this, what then? Such words would only hurt and frighten her.
So I only squeezed her hand, and said nothing of all that. “Oh, there is a reason we must leave Jerusalem,” I said. “But it is a man’s reason, and I do not think you would understand. Leave the reasons to the king, and turn your mind to what we must do before nightfall.”
I should have spoken plainly with her then. But dearly as I loved Bathsheba, I thought of her as a little sister, younger and less wise than Solomon; I did her less than justice. And to spare her a moment’s pain, I too twisted truth to my own ends, just as David did.
For a few paces we did not speak. Then Bathsheba said, “I have never gone to war before. What shall we pack?”
A foolish woman’s question, some would call that. I knew better; what we chose to take with us now might be all we would ever have. “Nor have I. You must help me choose wisely, Bathsheba.”
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