Unspoken (3 page)

“Bathsheba,” he said raggedly and held out his arm, but she couldn’t move at the sight of him covered in blood. His eyes were so fierce he looked like a stranger. “Come, Daughter,” he said more gently, still breathing hard. “Come to me. I won’t hurt you.” Trembling violently, she looked away and saw the carnage around her.

Her grandfather was there suddenly, catching her up in his arms, holding her close. “You are safe, my little flower.” Over his shoulder, Bathsheba saw David speaking with Ahinoam and Abigail. She lost sight of him again when her grandfather put her back on her feet, his hand firmly upon her shoulder, keeping her against his side. “War is always worse for the children,” he said gruffly.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to find us,” her mother said, her arms still around Bathsheba’s father. “Oh, Eliam, you would’ve been proud of your daughter.” She told him about everything from the day the Amalekites had raided the camp.

Bathsheba closed her eyes, but even then she couldn’t block out the picture of the slaughter around her. She was cold and couldn’t stop shaking. She understood now why her mother cried every time her father left camp with David.

“The Philistines turned us away,” her father said. “If they hadn’t, we might not have been able to track you so quickly.”

Her mother frowned. “Saul?”

“He’s outnumbered.”

“What will David do?”

“The only thing he can do. Nothing.”

On the way back to camp, some of the men argued over the share of spoils they’d taken from the Amalekite camp. They were not willing to share with those who had been too tired to cross the river. David commanded that the spoils be divided equally among all the men, with gifts to be sent to the elders of Israel’s cities.

And so it was done, but not without grumbling.

An Amalekite came into David’s camp, bearing news of Israel’s defeat. Bathsheba was listening when he told David that Saul and his son Jonathan had been killed by the Philistines at Mount Gilboa. Their bodies were hanging on the wall of Beth-shan, while Saul’s weapons had been placed in the temple of Ashtoreth. When the messenger stepped forward and stretched out his arms, murmurs issued from David’s men, who stood by, watching. The Amalekite smiled broadly, triumphant, as he offered David Saul’s crown.

David looked at it and began to shake with rage. Bathsheba wondered why he was so angry. David took the proffered crown. “How do you know that Saul and Jonathan are dead?” he demanded.

The man’s eyes flickered. Perhaps the Amalekite sensed something ominous in David’s tone. “I happened to be on Mount Gilboa,” he answered. “I saw Saul there leaning on his spear with the enemy chariots closing in on him. When he turned and saw me, he cried out for me to come to him. ‘How can I help?’ I asked him. And he said to me, ‘Who are you?’ I replied, ‘I am an Amalekite.’ Then he begged me, ‘Come over here and put me out of my misery, for I am in terrible pain and want to die.’ So I killed him,” the Amalekite told David, “for I knew he couldn’t live. Then I took his crown and one of his bracelets so I could bring them to you, my lord.”

Even from her vantage point, Bathsheba could see the blood drain from David’s face. “Were you not afraid to kill the Lord’s anointed one?” he cried. As the man shifted his weight, David said to one of his men, “Kill him!” So the man thrust his sword into the Amalekite.

“You die self-condemned!” David spoke into the impaled man’s face. “For you yourself confessed that you killed the Lord’s anointed one.” He yanked the sword from the Amalekite and watched him crumple to the ground.

David must have felt the eyes of all upon him, for he looked around at the silent men, women, and children staring at what he’d done. Bathsheba longed to understand, to share his grief. His emotions burst forth and he cried out, “Your pride and joy, O Israel, lies dead on the hills! How the mighty heroes have fallen! O King Saul!” He sobbed, dropping the sword and holding his head. “Oh, Jonathan! Jonathan, my brother!”

David’s grief infected the entire camp as everyone mourned the death of King Saul and David’s best friend, Jonathan. David sang songs of tribute to them, reminding the people of the good days when Saul had loved the Lord and served Him.

And when the period of mourning came to an end, David obeyed the Lord and moved his army to Hebron.

It was at Hebron that Bathsheba watched David marry Maacah. Through the years she watched him marry Haggith, Abital, and Eglah, and with each wedding, she heard he made important alliances. He needed allies, for despite Saul’s death, the house of Saul continued to wage war upon David. “He has an eye for beautiful women,” she heard her grandfather say. Amnon was born to Ahinoam, Kileab to Abigail, Absalom to Maacah.

Messengers came from Abner, commander of the army of Saul’s son Ishbosheth, proposing an alliance. Bathsheba’s grandfather advised David to be cautious and test Abner’s sincerity and strength. So David sent word that he would not agree to anything unless his first wife, Saul’s daughter Michal, was returned to him.

“He must love her very much,” Bathsheba said. She still could not look at David without feeling a quickening inside her, but she was more clear-sighted now that she was almost grown than she had been as a small child. She no longer clung so tenaciously to her fantasies of marrying the man of her dreams.

Her mother shook her head. “Love has nothing to do with it. What rightfully belonged to David must be restored. He will take Michal into his house, but she will never have children.”

“All of his other wives have had children. She will also.”

“Your grandfather will advise against it. She’s been defiled by adultery. King Saul gave her to another man years ago, when you were just a baby. Besides that, should David beget a child by her and build the house of Saul? May it never be! David will listen to your grandfather. He will provide for Michal and protect her, but he will never touch her again.”

Bathsheba felt pity for Michal. “It would have been kinder to leave her with the other man.” And David would have one less wife, one less beautiful woman in his household.

“Perhaps,” her mother said quietly. “I heard that the man followed her for miles, weeping and wailing. Abner had to order him away. But David is a king, Bathsheba. He is not an ordinary man.”

“No one could ever have called David ordinary, even before he was king.”

Her mother looked at her solemnly. Bathsheba smiled. “Don’t worry, Mother. I know I am only the daughter of a humble warrior.” Something flickered in her mother’s eyes. Bathsheba turned away. “If David will never have children with Michal, why is it so important she be returned to him?”

“He must prove himself strong. A king who cannot keep possession of the women who belong to him cannot hold a kingdom together.”

Bathsheba knew David was strong enough. What strength he lacked God would provide. She looked toward his tent. “Do you think she loves him?”

“She did once. She even saved his life. But that was years ago.”

“I don’t think he loves her anymore. I don’t think he’s ever given his heart to any woman, not completely.”

“Oh, my dear.” Her mother sighed heavily. “It is wiser for a woman to fall in love with a poor man who can afford only one wife.” Bathsheba’s throat closed hot, and she blinked back tears as her mother rose and came to her, turning her around and tipping her chin up. “You became a woman a month ago. I spoke with your father and he says someone has already spoken to him regarding you.”

Bathsheba’s heart pounded with trepidation. “Who?”

Her mother smiled. “A good man. A strong one.”

“Who is it?”

“I won’t say until it’s settled, but if it comes to be, you will have a husband you can respect.”

“Respect, but not love.”

“In time, love, too. If you allow it.”

Bathsheba’s father and grandfather accepted the bride-price from Uriah the Hittite, and all, in their minds, was settled. Her mother, in an effort to encourage her, explained their many reasons for choosing him. Uriah had saved her father once in battle; Uriah was counted among David’s thirty mighty men; Uriah had proven himself valorous and dependable in hard times. Ahithophel had seen Uriah charge into the hottest battle without fear in order to defend David. He was admired and respected by all, and a friend of the king. Such a man would be able to protect her and provide for her and the children she would give him.

“He’s a courageous man, Bathsheba, and he’s loyal. He’s been wise with his possessions. Unlike others, Uriah hasn’t squandered the spoils he gathered in battles against the Philistines and Amalekites.”

“But he’s so much older than I am!”

Her mother looked her in the eyes. “He’s a year younger than David.”

Bathsheba sat heavily, covered her face, and wept in defeat. She was a woman—albeit a young one—and had no say in the matter. The decision regarding whom she would marry had never been hers, and she’d always known in her heart that David was as far beyond her reach as a star in the heavens. She was nothing but a foolish, earthbound child clinging to her dreams, but, oh, how it hurt to have them wrenched from her. Years ago, David had been chosen by God and anointed by Samuel to one day be king of Israel. Who was she to think she was worthy to be his wife—or even his concubine? What wretched misery to fall in love with a man who was a king!

“If only he’d been an ordinary shepherd . . .”

Her mother stamped her foot. “
Enough of this foolishness! Enough dreaming!
I will not have my daughter act like a selfish child! You should thank God David is more than a shepherd! Where would our people be if he’d never left the pastures and his father’s flocks? Even if you were the daughter of a king and worthy to marry him, what then? Could you bear to watch him take more wives and concubines? A king must build a strong house and preserve the kingdom. You would have to put your own desires aside for the sake of a nation that depends upon him.”

Her mother grasped her shoulders tightly. “Your father has chosen a fine man for you. Uriah is good and decent, and you will be his
only
wife. David has never so much as glanced at you, Bathsheba, but Uriah looks upon you as though you were a pearl of great price. You will be his most prized possession.”

Bathsheba felt ashamed. “I have nothing against Uriah, Mother. It’s only that I . . .” Tears streamed down her face. She knew it was useless to say another word. Could she change the inevitable?

Her mother let go of her abruptly and moved away. “No one expects you to love Uriah right away, Bathsheba. In time, you will—if you give him a chance.” She turned and looked at her. “But for now, you
will
show Uriah the respect and obedience he deserves as your husband. If you don’t, I will take a whip to you myself!”