Authors: India Edghill
Queenmaker (6 page)
“But Saul had given his daughter Michal, David’s wife, to Phalti the son of Laish
… .”
… .”
- I Samuel 25:44
I waited alone in my tower room a month and more after my wedding night. Then I thought that endless confinement was to be my punishment; no one told me that a moon’s turn would free me of this prison at least. It was only later, when I was older, and wiser in the ways of kings, that I realized that my father wished to know if I carried David’s child. I do not know what he would have done then. Perhaps he would have remembered that it was my child, too; blood of his blood, as well as of David’s.
But there was no child. There were only slow-winding days of silence and nothing.
At first I thought I would die of fear, then of boredom. When at last Abner came to see me, early one morning, I was unpicking an embroidered cushion to sew anew. It was not how I would have chosen to be found, but Abner paid no heed. He already thought me a silly child, so I suppose it did not surprise him.
I set the cushion aside, its threads half undone and all a-tangle, and looked at him, and waited. I knew Abner’s tricks well, after all the years he had been my father’s war-chief; he would wait and wait, and soon or late you would say something foolish only to break the silence. Then he held a weapon to twist and turn against you. I had seen him do it often enough to others. So I sat and
waited too. I thought my tribulations had taught me some wisdom, which pleased me.
waited too. I thought my tribulations had taught me some wisdom, which pleased me.
“I see you are happy here, Princess Michal,” Abner said. His eyes were keen enough to see through to my pleasure in my own cleverness. Now he used words flint-sharp to pierce it. “You will be happier still to know that you may now leave this place; you go this day to your wedding. Hold yourself ready, for men will soon be sent to fetch you to your bridegroom. Many men,” he added, and smiled a little.
My skin turned cold and there was a noise in my ears like a river in spring flood. “No. I am David’s wife. You—you are trying to frighten me.”
“Then it takes either a great deal to frighten you, Princess, or very little.” Abner turned away, as if to go and leave me alone until the men came for me.
I forgot that I had learned wisdom; I jumped up and ran after Abner, clutching at his arm. “No, wait! I am David’s wife, he married me before all the people! My father—” Surely my father would not do this; I could not believe that he would. I was his youngest daughter, his little dove Michal. He loved me.
“Your father will not see you, nor will he again call you daughter. As for your marriage to David, that has been set aside.”
“He cannot do that!”
“You are in no position, Princess, to say what can be done, and what cannot.”
“My brother—I wish to see my brother Jonathan!”
“He is not here, and if he were you would not see him.”
Abner would have pulled my hand from his sleeve, but I would not be moved for the new fear his words gave me. “Jonathan—he is not dead? Please tell me!”
I was afraid Abner would shrug me off, but he had kindness enough to answer. “He is not dead. King Saul has sent him away for a time. Now calm yourself, and be thankful for the mercy the king has shown you—both of you.”
And then Abner was gone, and the door barred once more,
and I had not even thought to ask who the man was who dared to marry David’s wife—for I swore I would never be anything else.
and I had not even thought to ask who the man was who dared to marry David’s wife—for I swore I would never be anything else.
Grief and pain hone memory sharper than joy and love. I remember my second wedding day better than my first. Men came as Abner had said they would and took me silently out of the king’s house through the pillared gate. There was no music, and no dancing; there was no incense, no waving flowers, no feast spread before guests. I was not bedecked as befitted a bride; I had no veil, no jewels, no gold dusting my hair. I was married outside the gate, before my guards and a few serving-men, and the quiet was ill-omen for a marriage. If any rejoiced, it was not the bride.
I did not know what the bridegroom felt, and I did not care. I looked up once, as I was led to him; my eyes blurred with tears, and I saw only that he was tall and broad and not young. I denied the tears, squeezing my eyes hard-shut against them. I would not weep before these uncaring men.
Each word of this ceremony beat against my ears until I knew I would never be able to forget. It was so that I learned I was marrying Phaltiel of Gallim. I had never heard of the man or the village before. The priest droned his words in haste and the witnessing was a shuffling, muttered thing; no one wished to be there.
And then it was done. I stood and watched as the priest and the witnesses hurried away as if the very air about me carried harm. I stood and watched as the gate of my father’s house was closed against me.
I would have stood there until the night fell and the watchmen threw stones at me, but my hand was taken and held fast. His hand was strong and warm; I looked against my will.
I had been right; he was not young. Twice my age, or perhaps three times—surely forty at the least. For that first day I saw only that his hair and beard had some grey, and his face some lines, and so I called him old.
There were many lines around his eyes; he smiled at me and all the lines slanted upwards. “Come, Michal—now we will go home.”
I wished to deny him; I wished to be as brave as the great heroines of Israel, to be as Deborah and Jael, who had defied armies. But I was not, and I had nowhere else to go.
Phaltiel did not make me speak; he lifted me in his arms and set me upon the waiting donkey. “Here is a veil against the sun and dust—well, if you will not take it, I must wrap it for you, and I am no master of women’s drapings. Are you steady in the saddle? I warn you, my farm is far by foot and donkey-back—you must tell me when you are tired.”
I thought again of the heroines of Israel; I thought of David. Surely he knew of this, and somewhere on the long road he would swoop like an eagle out of the hills and take me away with him. He would not leave me in the hands of my enemies.
“I will not be tired,” I said, and made my back stiff. And I vowed I would keep it so every step of the way to Gallim.
At first I clung to my griefs as to a lover. In my eyes, I was a princess in a harper’s tale; though disgrace and revilement were my lot, my bearing would be royal. And someday David, my true husband, would come for me.
So when Phaltiel brought me down the valleys to his house I kept my chin high, and stared straight ahead, and would not speak to him. I wonder now that he did not beat me. Most men would have.
Phaltiel was a farmer, with lands in a fertile valley and in the plains beyond its sheltering hills. When we came over the rise of the last hill before the valley, Phaltiel stopped the donkey.
“This is the valley of Gallim, little princess, and that is the village. I know you will think it humble and quiet, but traders and
travelers pass through often enough to bring us news and goods from grander places.”
travelers pass through often enough to bring us news and goods from grander places.”
I looked, but said nothing. There was not much to see—a dozen houses dust-gold in the late-day sun; a stone well where the women would gather at dawn and dusk; fields beyond the houses. What was Gallim to me but a small backward village like a hundred others? David’s wife had nothing to do with such places.
“Now look there, down the valley past the village—that is my house. And now it is yours as well.”
But I did not look at his house, for my eyes burned as tears welled hot. I turned my head away so that he would not see. He did not wait after that, but took us straight down the dusty road past the village. Only when we stopped at the gate did I look for the first time upon the house in which I was now to live.
Phaltiel, or perhaps his father before him, had built the house to press against the rock cliff on the eastern side of the valley. It had the look of a dwelling that had been there long and was settled in its place. There was a stone wall running low around the house, and vines growing over the wall. Poppies splashed bright scarlet between house and wall.
Phaltiel put his hand on the donkey’s neck and turned to face me. “Well, Princess Michal, we are home at last. Will you come in with me?” He did not wait for my answer, but put his hands on my waist and swung me down to stand beside him. As he did so a dark-haired girl of my own age came running from the house, holding out her arms and calling out for joy at her father’s return.
I stood stiff and cold as Phaltiel caught her and kissed her forehead.
“So, Miriam, you are running out without your veil again.” Phaltiel hugged her shoulders and smiled at her. “But I will not scold you—it is your stepmother’s place to do that. I refuse to interfere in women’s matters.”
Phaltiel’s daughter paid no heed to this, but turned to me eagerly. “You are Princess Michal!” Her eyes were sloe-dark, and wide with admiration. “Oh, it must be wonderful to be a princess
and to have all that you want! Will you tell me what it is like to live in a king’s house? Do you wear gold in your hair every day?”
and to have all that you want! Will you tell me what it is like to live in a king’s house? Do you wear gold in your hair every day?”
To have all that I wanted—! Miriam’s warmth and heartfree words loosened the ice within me until it spilled out as tears. Angry at this betrayal, I turned away and hid my face in my hands. Tears slid between my fingers, trickled down my wrists. I prayed for the earth to open and swallow me up.
It did not, of course. Instead, Miriam flung herself upon me, petting and stroking and indignant. “Oh, do not cry! You are tired—Father, how could you drag her all that way on a donkey!—come indoors, and the maids and I will tend you. We will bathe you in cool water, and comb out your hair, and you will have the best linen, and we will all love you well. Do not cry!”
She hugged me hard, as if that could protect me from all ills. More ice melted; I turned into Miriam’s arms and laid my head on her shoulder and let her stroke my hair while I wiped my eyes with my dust-dry veil.
“I see that I am not needed here,” Phaltiel said. It seemed to me that he mocked, but when I glared up at him his face was smooth and not even his eyes laughed. “Go with Miriam, wife. She is the daughter of my house, and will take good care of you.”
So Miriam brought me into the house. It was a good house, too, built large, with bricks and cedar logs, and painted lintels. There was a pretty court in the women’s quarters; it faced upon the cliff wall, where an endless spring bubbled up from a crack in the rock. There was a fountain carved with a basin to catch the water, which spilled over the edge like liquid crystal to vanish into a hole at the base, disappearing back into the rock. Even my sorrow was diverted by this; courtyard wells were common enough, but I had never dreamt of pure running water inside a house.
Miriam saw me staring. “Yes, isn’t it wonderful? Do try it, Princess Michal—the water is always cold and sweet.”
The water was as she said. I drank and washed the salt-damp dust from my face, taking long over it. Miriam had run off while I was about this, to give orders to the maids, she said. She was back
too soon for me, followed by a sour-faced maidservant carrying a laden brass tray. Now that my face was cool, my mind was too, and I dreaded facing the women of Phaltiel’s house—my house, now.
too soon for me, followed by a sour-faced maidservant carrying a laden brass tray. Now that my face was cool, my mind was too, and I dreaded facing the women of Phaltiel’s house—my house, now.
But I did not need to fear Miriam. She was plump and friendly as a house-kitten, and bore no grudge that I was her father’s wife, no older than she, come to take the ordering of the household from her hands.
Now she stood before me, as the water I had splashed on my face made chill tracings down my neck, and offered me unstinting hospitality. “See, Princess, I have brought pomegranate juice, and wine, and figs, and almond-cakes. You must be thirsty, and hungry as well.”
I looked at the tray as the maid set it upon its stand. I could not have eaten all that had I been starving for a week. But I let myself be seated upon a bench that was well-padded with snowy fleeces, and allowed Miriam to press a cake into my hand.
“You must eat something,” she told me. She hesitated a moment, then added, “Do not look so sad, Princess. I—I know it must be very hard for you to come here, to such a humble house. But we will make you happy, I promise.”
Her anxious eyes promised me sympathy, something I craved more than food or drink or rest. My eyes stung, but I was prepared now, and would not let tears fall again. Instead I said listlessly, “Sit beside me, Miriam. And please, do not call me ‘Princess’. My—my father has said I am no longer his daughter, so you see—”
My voice trembled, and I took a quick bite of the cake to hide it just as Miriam, looking indignant, flung her arms about me.
I choked, of course, and coughed until I thought I should die, while Miriam pressed me to drink water or pomegranate juice or wine, and thumped me hard between my shoulders. When finally I could breath again, I leaned weakly against her, and sighed.
“Oh, poor Michal—or should I call you ‘stepmother’?” Miriam looked doubtful.
I was certain. Things were bad enough without a girl my own
age calling me ‘mother’. I begged her, meaning it with all my heart, to use my name freely.
age calling me ‘mother’. I begged her, meaning it with all my heart, to use my name freely.
“Very well, Michal, since you wish it.”
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