Bathsheba (11 page)

“Dear one, the king has invited our family to celebrate the New Moon feast at his table tonight. Do you have any objections?” Ahithophel glanced at David and winked as though he found the question itself humorous. What woman would defy her grandfather in front of the king? David hid a smile as he watched her, but she kept her eyes lowered and would not look in his direction.

“If the king is pleased to have us, Sabba, we would be most foolish to refuse him. Tell my lord the king the invitation is a great honor.” The woman’s tone was pleasant and familiar. Had he heard it before?

“You might tell him yourself,” David said, surprised at his own boldness. The hum of voices around them told him he had not been overheard, but the woman still refused to so much as look at him.

She kept her eyes averted, as though every step over the rocky terrain must be carefully watched as she walked. “Thank you, my lord king. My family will be most pleased to share your table this night.” She stopped and bowed low, then rose at Ahithophel’s touch on her arm. Her reaction to him should not have surprised him—she was a married woman speaking to a man not her husband. What did he expect? King or not, he could not ask her to welcome the attention of a man she didn’t know.

“I will look forward to it. Your grandfather can introduce you to me properly then.” He shifted away from her, sensing her relief as he dismissed her, but unable to shake the interest their short interchange had provided.

He picked up his pace as Jerusalem’s limestone walls came into view. He had no business letting his mind wander to a married woman. His own wives and children needed him, and though he would glimpse Ahithophel’s family tonight, even briefly meet them at the feast, his focus must be where it rightfully belonged. After the feast he would spend time with his own family and bless them.

9

The king’s banquet hall shimmered. Golden stands held cones of incense in the room’s four corners, while others sparked with flame along the perimeter and on every table. Drinking chalices, bowls, and plates all rimmed with gold were set at each place, and food-laden platters covered fine white linen cloths. Bathsheba, Chava, Aunt Talia, and Jarah were led to seats near the front to the left of the spacious room, near enough to have a good view of the king’s resplendent table.

Chava giggled, leaning close to Bathsheba. “Can you believe we’re feasting with the king? I’ve dreamed of this all my life!” Her cousin’s dramatics reminded Bathsheba of their girlhood days when Chava wanted to marry the king and Bathsheba wanted to marry for love.

Uriah’s face floated before her mind’s eye, growing ever dimmer with each passing day. He’d been gone since early spring, and the height of summer was now upon them. Would it never end? She was weary of war, of waiting for his return.

“Will you look at those serving plates? I’ve never seen so much food!” Chava caught Bathsheba’s arm and tugged her to sit beside her while Aunt Talia engaged Jarah in conversation. “Are you listening to me, Cousin? Or have I lost you to daydreams even here?”

“I’m here.” Bathsheba offered her cousin a smile, trying to pull herself from her sudden melancholy mood. “Just a little distracted. This place is beautiful!”

Chava shifted, placing a protective hand on her middle where Matthias’s child lay. “Aren’t those the king’s wives?” She pointed unbecomingly in the direction of the table where the wives of King David sat and would soon share the meal.

“Yes, I don’t think anyone else would sit so close to the king.” Bathsheba leaned in, making sure not to be overheard. “They don’t look too festive, do they?”

Bathsheba noted their masked hostility as she assessed each woman, recalling who they all were from overheard conversations between her father and grandfather and the few glimpses she’d had of them during festival parades. Michal was the oldest, though the lines along Ahinoam’s mouth and brow and her dour expression put her age ahead of Michal’s. Michal seemed the most at peace among the group, while Maacah’s resentful glare made Bathsheba pause. That one could be trouble for the king or for his other wives. What had happened to make Maacah so bitter? And could these women not set aside their differences even for a feast?

Trumpets drew her attention, and Chava squeezed her arm, her excitement palpable. “There he is!” She hissed the words through clenched teeth. “What was it like meeting him? I’m so jealous!”

Bathsheba had heard Chava’s questions the entire walk from the high place, from the moment her grandfather had singled her out and the king had chosen to speak with her there. Her heart had fluttered like the wings of an anxious bird at his nearness, and she wondered if he would recognize her beneath the heavy folds of her veil. When they had spoken at the beginning of spring, the day Uriah left for war, they had stood across rooftops and he might not have gotten a clear view of her. She shook her head. Of course he had, given the foolish way she had allowed her veil to fall from covering her face. But today he did not seem to recall the encounter as she did. But why should he? He had many women to look at and met many people each day at court. She was just another face to him. And that thought should not matter to her in the least.

“You have nothing to be jealous of, Chava. He simply wanted Grandfather to join him tonight, and Grandfather mentioned us. The king was just being polite. He barely spoke to me.” She stood and bowed low with the rest of the room’s occupants as the flag bearers preceded the king into the banquet hall. The trumpet sounded again, signaling the king had taken his seat on his gilded banquet couch.

“Nevertheless, many people would love the chance to even be in the king’s presence, and you were practically close enough to touch him!” Chava placed a hand on her chest and gave a dramatic sigh.

“Matthias is going to confine you to the house if he sees you acting like a foolish, lovesick woman.” Bathsheba chuckled and glanced at her aunt, who seemed equally taken with the king. Was every woman in love with him?

Her gaze shifted to the king at the thought. He was exceedingly handsome in his rich purple and green robes as he laughed at something her grandfather was saying to him. His features reminded her of a mischievous boy, his expression far lighter than it had been the night of Abigail’s funeral procession, or even the day she had spoken with him from her roof. What a fascinating man!

“Matthias won’t know if you don’t tell him.” Chava nodded to a servant, who placed choice pieces of lamb on her plate after he had already done so for Bathsheba. Fascinating or not, he was merely a symbol to her, the king of the land, not a man like other men. Despite her grandfather’s original hopes, Bathsheba thought not for the first time how right her father had been to insist she marry outside of the royal household.

She nodded at something Chava said that she only half heard, shifting her gaze to the king’s wives, whose snippy tones carried to her across the short distance that separated their tables. A shudder passed through her. Uriah’s quiet household was far better than such a place, despite its opulence.

Chava chattered on, pulling Bathsheba’s attention to her, moving from one subject to another, but Bathsheba’s gaze invariably returned to watch her grandfather and the rest of the men at the king’s table. The main meal came to an end too soon as servants moved about refilling wine goblets. Trays of honeyed nutmeats and pressed date cakes replaced platters of vegetables and roasted lamb.

The king took up his lyre and began to strum the strings. Bathsheba’s heart warmed, a little thrill passing through her. She had long hoped to hear the king’s music again, as her father and husband had so often on the battlefield. The room grew still as the king’s voice rose above the chords, a determined, urgent, melodious sound.

“Let Elohim arise, may His enemies be scattered; may His foes flee before Him. As smoke is blown away by the wind, may You blow them away; as wax melts before the fire, may the wicked perish before Elohim. But may the righteous be glad and rejoice before Elohim; may they be happy and joyful. Sing to Elohim, sing praise to His name, extol Him who rides on the clouds—His name is Yahweh. Rejoice before Him.”

Bathsheba leaned forward on the cushioned bench, entranced. She had never heard the king’s voice so strong, yet something more . . . haunting, perhaps. She studied him in the lamplight, his crowned head bent forward, his eyes closed. His dark hair held traces of silver along the temples, but his face bore few marks of age.

Bathsheba’s gaze drifted as her thoughts did the same. What was this hold the king had over them? Every man sat spellbound, every woman clearly moved. She studied him once again.

Devotion. She saw it in his face when he lifted his head above the crowd, his gaze rapt with awe and reverence. The king was so taken with Elohim that Bathsheba found herself caught up in the moment, in the worship. Her spirit soared with the music, and she realized that her own gaze had lifted heavenward, her heart yearning for the Most High. When at last the song ended, she looked at the king. He handed his lyre to a servant and turned to say something to one of his advisors.

The moment of worship was gone. The loss left her feeling strangely bereft.
Sing more.
But no one spoke the words.

The murmur of voices rose around her as men and women sampled the honeyed delicacies forgotten during the king’s song. Bathsheba waved a restraining hand at her aunt as she offered her the tray of sweets. Her focus shifted to Chava, but her cousin was talking to a woman sitting on the other side of her. Bathsheba fingered the linen cloth and used it to dab her mouth, then picked up her gold-rimmed wine goblet and took a sip, her gaze drawn again to the king’s table. Amnon and Absalom were engaged in what appeared to be an almost heated conversation with a third man she didn’t recognize. The man was leaning forward, obviously attempting to appease them both.

“They’re handsome men, like their father.” Chava’s voice gave her a start.

She looked at her cousin. “They have beautiful mothers, so why wouldn’t they be?”

Chava shrugged. “And a handsome father.” Her smile showed uneven teeth, one reason why Chava would never have married into the royal household, her lack of beauty notwithstanding.

Bathsheba laughed, hating the nervous way it sounded. “And every woman in this room has seemed to notice that fact! You included, Cousin.”

Chava pushed back from the seat. “I drank too much wine and the baby knows it. If you’ll excuse me.” She asked a servant something and quickly followed the woman out of the room.

Bathsheba glanced at her aunt, who was caught up in conversation with Rei’s wife. Feeling suddenly lost, Bathsheba watched the jugglers for a few moments, but her gaze found its way back to the king’s table of its own accord.

Her heart skipped a beat as she caught him looking directly at her. Or was she mistaken? But the slight smile playing above his beard and the nod he gave her told her she was not. She told herself to look down, to lift her cup to her lips, or to glance swiftly away, but she couldn’t pull her gaze from his. Her breath seemed to still inside of her. His look held recognition, making her cheeks feel like flame. She should never have come. But how did a mere woman refuse a king? Her own husband and father never could, and she was not better than they.

At last he broke eye contact, his attention snagged by one of the men sitting beside him. She longed to continue to watch the exchange. Who knew if she would ever have this chance again? Didn’t he say he intended to be properly introduced to her tonight? Excitement and fear rushed through her as twin emotions. She could not refuse the king, but she dare not stay. The pull of this place, the king’s very presence, took her thoughts to places they should not go, fed by her own sense of loneliness and longings she’d been forced to deny with Uriah’s absence.