A Lineage of Grace (48 page)

David felt the heat come up into his face. Was the Hittite reprimanding him? Was he saying that the Ark and the army were encamped in tents while the king was at his leisure inside his palace walls? David felt the sting of reproach. Breathing slowly to cool the hot blood racing through his veins, he leaned back and considered Uriah. “Well, stay here tonight, and tomorrow you may return to the army.”

Uriah turned.

David’s teeth clenched as he watched Uriah walk from the throne room. The Hittite hadn’t addressed him properly as “my lord the king.” Had the soldier forgotten to make obeisance? Or had the omission been deliberate?

Joram reported on Uriah’s movements the next morning. The Hittite remained in Jerusalem as commanded, but did not go down to his house. Impatient and frustrated, David ordered a sumptuous feast prepared for two and summoned Uriah to be his guest. He sat on the dais, eating and drinking before the Hittite, encouraging the Hittite to do likewise. Food and drink always relaxed a man and helped turn his thoughts to other sensual delights. The evening proved torturous, for Uriah scorned food while he drank freely and talked—talked of the glorious battles they’d fought together. His words were like bee stings, pricking David’s conscience and swelling his resentment. He didn’t need to be reminded of how the mighty men had served him. But who had led them? David had! The mighty men would have been no more than a band of marauders without him!

Raising his cup, Uriah toasted David. “To the shepherd boy we made a king.” He wept as he drained his cup.

David was disgusted by the man’s display of emotion. The Hittite couldn’t hold his wine. David was eager to see the back of him. He rose and came down from his dais. Gripping the Hittite’s arm, he hauled him to his feet. “Enough for tonight, my old friend.” He slapped his back. “Go home.”

David watched him walk unsteadily from the chamber.

Joram came to him shortly afterward. “He sleeps at the gate, my lord the king.”

“I’ll deal with him in the morning.” Angry, David retired, but his sleep was troubled. Someone was trying to speak to him, and he knew he didn’t want to hear what the Voice had to say. Groaning, he awakened drenched with sweat. He sat on the edge of the bed he’d shared with Bathsheba and thought of the promise he’d made. He lowered his head and held it between his hands. Uriah hadn’t cooperated, so he would have to think of another way to help her. A pity the Hittite hadn’t been killed at Rabbah. Then there’d be no problem. He could . . .

His head came up. Another plan developed, one final and perfect, and one that would give him what he wanted most: Bathsheba.

David rose and went to the writing table, where he had composed some of his most beautiful psalms. He prepared the ink in its small pot, dipped his brush, and began to write orders for Joab, commander of his army:
“Station Uriah on the front lines where the battle is fiercest. Then pull back so that he will be killed.”

David knew that Joab, of all men, would understand the need for secrecy. He would also understand the passions of a man’s heart. After all, Joab had once murdered a man in vengeance. He would do whatever David told him without question—and without condemnation. In fact, he would probably admire the king’s cunning.

Rolling the small scroll, David melted wax and pressed his ring into it to seal the message. Then he rose, washed, dressed, and went to the court. “Bring me Uriah the Hittite.”

Within a matter of minutes, Uriah entered the courtroom. David saw that he had washed as well. He walked forward with regal bearing, displaying no sign of ill effects from the night of drinking. He stopped before the throne, but he said nothing. Nor did he bend his knee or put his fist against his chest and bow as he had done the day of his arrival. He stood silent, waiting.

David held out the small sealed scroll. “Give this to Joab.” His heart beat ten times before Uriah came forward, reached out, and took the scroll from his hand. When Uriah’s fingers lightly brushed against his, David retracted his hand and glared into the Hittite’s eyes. What he saw there gave his heart a jolt. An expression of sorrow. And acceptance.

The man knew he was receiving his own death sentence.

Uriah tucked the small scroll inside his armor, against his heart. Then he turned and walked from the court with the bearing of a valorous soldier going out once again to prove his loyalty to the king.

* * *

Bathsheba was unprepared for the news that came to her door. “Your husband, Uriah, has been killed in battle at Rabbah.”

She stood gaping at the soldier standing before her. “What?”

“Your husband is dead.”

“No. No!” As her legs buckled, her handmaiden embraced her.

“Oh, my lady, my lady . . .”

Bathsheba rocked back and forth, wailing and keening. Women came out of their houses up and down the street as Bathsheba sat in her doorway tearing the neckline of her dress and throwing dust upon her head as was the custom.

As the day wore on, other women were heard mourning their dead, but Bathsheba was too immersed in her own sorrow to wonder why so many grieved. Not until her mother came to her did suspicion sink its talons into her. For Bathsheba had not heard
all
the news from Rabbah, nor did she know of the rumors and gossip overflowing the king’s court and palace, spilling into the streets of Jerusalem.

“Your cousin Miriam’s husband is dead! And so is the husband of Havalah. Your husband, Uriah, was not the only man to die before the walls of Rabbah.” She knelt in front of Bathsheba and glared at her. “Tell me what this means, Daughter. Tell me!”

Confused and frightened, Bathsheba drew back from the cynicism glittering in her mother’s eyes. What was her mother implying? Why would these deaths have anything to do with her? “How would I know what happened in Rabbah, Mother?” Why was her mother blaming her for a battle that had happened miles from Jerusalem? It made no sense!

“Don’t you know how people talk? Things done in the dark always come out into the light. Tell me about the message from the king, Bathsheba.”

Bathsheba’s alarm grew. “What message?”

“The one Joab received just before he sent men forward to the walls! And Joab didn’t choose a weak spot where victory was certain. He chose a place where valiant Ammonites were positioned. They came out of the city and fought, and the servants of David fell.” Her hand gripped Bathsheba’s arm tightly. “Your father’s cousin who serves the king thought David would cry out at the news of such needless loss of lives. But he didn’t! Nor did he seem surprised by the news. Tell me why, Bathsheba!”

“I don’t know!”
Bathsheba gasped, face flushed. “Why should I know anything?” She tried to pull free, but her mother’s fingers dug into her flesh. “Mother! You’re hurting me!”

“Tell me, wretched girl! Why would a commander as wise in the ways of battle as Joab send men so close to the wall?” She gave Bathsheba a hard jerk. “Joab knows as well as everyone how King Abimelech, son of Gideon, was killed by a piece of millstone thrown down upon him by a woman on the wall. He even mentioned it in the message he sent to the king! There is no humiliation worse for a man than to be destroyed by a woman! Oh, my daughter, what have you done?”

Bathsheba felt the coldness in the pit of her stomach seep into her blood. “Nothing! I’ve done nothing!”

“Nothing!” Her mother sneered. “The messenger said, ‘Uriah the Hittite was killed, too,’ as though this was the news the king waited to hear!”

Bathsheba felt the blood drain from her face. “No,” she choked.
“No!”
She shook her head, refusing to believe the accusation leveled against David. “They were friends,” she stammered. “David would never . . .”

“
David
, is it? Do you know what
David
said about the news of your husband’s death? He said to tell Joab not to be discouraged, for the sword kills one as well as another!” She spat the words bitterly, her face ravaged. “Your father is in Rabbah!”

“I didn’t know this would happen! How could I know?”

Her mother let go of her and drew back. “So the rumors are true!” She looked ill and pinched with pain. “I threatened a woman who said she saw you being taken into the palace over a month ago. I prayed the rumors about you and the king were false. I told the woman not to repeat her lies.
Lies!
I should’ve known what you’d do if you ever had the chance!”

Crying, Bathsheba bent over, covering her head.

“Ohhh.” Her mother moaned and rocked. “What have you done to us all? Ohhhhh . . .”

Gasping between her gulping sobs, Bathsheba confessed. “David saw me bathing from the roof of the palace. He sent for me. What could I do? He is the king!” Her mother slapped her hard across the face. Bathsheba recoiled, raising her arm to protect herself.

“And what did you do?” her mother spat. “Did you cover yourself? Did you call me for help? When he summoned you, did you do as Abigail did and tell him he would bring sin upon himself? You did none of those things! I can see the guilt written all over you, you wretched, stupid girl!
You harlot!
You’ve ruined us all!”

Bathsheba shook before her mother’s fury. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“I told you years ago David was not for you! I told you and told you! Why didn’t you listen?
You’ve murdered your own husband!
”

“I didn’t murder Uriah!
I didn’t!
All I wanted was one night in the arms of the man I love, the man I’ve
always
loved. You knew! Did you try to help me? You always knew! I didn’t mean for anyone to be hurt!”

“And you think
love
makes what you’ve done forgivable? Men fought with Uriah near the walls of Rabbah! Men died because of what you want!” She struck Bathsheba again, sobbing with anguish and rage. “You’ve brought shame upon my household! Shame upon your father! Shame upon Ahithophel! Do you think they’ll ever forgive you? It would be better for me had I died in childbirth than to have given life to such as you! Disobedient daughter! Better had you been born dead!”

Bathsheba blocked another blow. “I carry David’s child!”

Her mother uttered a broken sob and sank to her knees. “Ohhhh . . . ,” she wailed, her hands clenched over her ears. “Ohhhh . . .”

Bathsheba sobbed. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Mother! You have to believe me!”

“What does it matter what I believe? Fool! How many have died because of you? It will all be on your head. Do you think others won’t learn of what the king has done for your sake? There are widows all over the city now who will curse you, and the king, too. And do you think the sons left fatherless today will rise up to praise David’s name? Do you think they will take up arms for him? They will hate him with every breath they take! They will seek his destruction. And what of the thirty mighty men who fought with Uriah on David’s behalf? What of your own father and all the others who’ve stood by David during his years in the wilderness? What will they think of their king now? Is he worthy of their loyalty and their life’s blood? What will your father and grandfather do when they learn David murdered Uriah to have you? You are their flesh and blood, and you’ve betrayed them. They will never look at you again. People will spit on the ground when you pass by. They will never speak your name aloud! They will curse the day of your birth! And they will seek revenge upon the man who has ruined the reputation of their household!” Her mother tore the neckline of her dress as in mourning. “You are dead to me, dead to us all!”

Horrified, Bathsheba stretched out her hands, weeping and pleading. Her mother slapped her hands away and stood. Bathsheba rose to her knees and grasped her mother’s dress. “Mother, please! Speak reason to them!”

Her mother shoved her away. “Reason?
You
dare speak of reason?” She kicked her.

Afraid for the child, Bathsheba cowered and curled into a ball, but her mother didn’t strike her again. “You are cursed among women! Your name will be a byword for
adulteress
! Your name will be unspoken as long as I live!” She spit on her and went to the doorway. She stood there, her back to Bathsheba. “May the Lord God of Israel strike me down if your name ever crosses my lips again! May God do to you what you have done to others!” She fled into the street, leaving the door ajar behind her.

Scrambling over to it, Bathsheba closed and locked it.

Over the days that passed, she grieved the loss of her husband, the loss of the others who fought beside him, the loss of her family, the loss of her reputation as well as that of the king she still loved so desperately. She grieved over the chaos she knew would come because of her sin with the king and the murder of her husband. She fasted and wept for Uriah, collecting her tears in a small bottle she wore around her neck. She covered her head with ashes.

The formal mourning period of seven days ended, but the sorrow and shame would not lift. Her fears deepened, withering her soul. During the dark hours of night, Bathsheba understood why purity was so highly praised. She was paying the cost of disobedience now, and the price was higher than she ever could have imagined. One night of passion would cost her a lifetime of despair.

And the cost to others . . .

Soldiers entered her house eight days after Bathsheba had received the news of her husband’s death. “We are under orders to bring the wife of Uriah the Hittite to the palace.”

The wife of Uriah.

Bathsheba clutched against her heart the bottle filled with her tears.

The captain of the guard stepped forward. “You must come.” Bathsheba left her house with nothing. She walked down the middle of the street with six soldiers as her escort. She wondered if David was showing her honor or merely protecting her. Women came to their doorways to watch the procession. One spit in the dust as she passed by. It seemed the eyes of Jerusalem were upon her—eyes of suspicion, eyes of hatred. She heard people whispering.

The guards didn’t take her through a side entrance this time. They escorted her through the main entrance of the palace. The king was taking to wife the widow of one of his fallen mighty men. Perhaps it was meant as a show of great magnitude, for she was, after all, only a common woman, the daughter of a warrior, the granddaughter of a military adviser.