Bathsheba (17 page)

David stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head, his gaze skimming the same lines, the same jagged ruts, in the cedar beams above his bed. He yawned, his body weary yet not tired, his mind rehearsing the multiple list of grievances he’d heard that very morning. He’d passed judgment almost without forethought. The cases were different yet the same—the faces changing with the years but the pleas coming from an unbroken column of humanity begging for justice.

He was a good king. He had worked hard to judge righteously, to be fair and prudent and swift to punish the guilty. And except for the war with Ammon, the land had never known such peace.

He rose, his movements languid, the heat of the day still clinging to the inner rooms of the palace, despite the servants waving palm fronds and the cool water drawn hourly from the Gihon to refresh his thirst. The nap had revived him, but he could not shake the restlessness, the sense that he should do something—anything—to relieve his melancholy mood.

A servant entered at the snap of his fingers. “Bring me fresh wine and draw a cool bath.” He moved through his bedchamber to his adjoining gardens and fingered the long, pointed leaves of the almond tree, then breathed in the scents of sage and pine. His cultivated flowers had lost their blooms in summer’s heat, much as he had lost his joy. He should sort through his parchments and pen a new song, but no words played a tune in his head, and the desire to create fell away.

“Your bath is ready, my lord.” The servant approached and handed him his golden chalice. He sipped the smooth red wine and waved the servant off. “I have changed my mind. Perhaps later.”

“As you wish, my lord.” The servant disappeared, leaving David alone. The breeze no longer carried the hot breath of midday, lifting the strands of hair from his forehead. He should have gone with the men to the battle, should leave even now to join them. Joab’s disrespect and his bitter tone were preferable to this sense of aloneness. His excuse of having taken a new wife held no purpose or joy for him now. The newest group of women offered to him by the northern tribes was uninteresting and boring. And if he thought on it long enough, as he seemed consigned to do of late, most women were singularly uninteresting and boring, so why had he thought these new wives would be any different? No one matched Abigail, and no one ever would.

Irritated, he walked back to his bedchamber, but he was weary of rest. Carrying the chalice in one hand, he passed Benaiah with a nod. The guard fell in behind him, and servants bowed low and skirted out of his path as he strode down cedar-lined halls, his jeweled sandals landing on gleaming patterned tiles. He turned toward the location of the women’s courtyard, slowing his gait. Bickering voices floated to him past the closed door, and the cries of small children made him pause. Soft music trilled in the background but could not override the bitter sounds of quarreling.

He whirled about, in no mood to face his wives, and took the halls in the opposite direction to the roof. “Stay here.” He glanced at Benaiah, then moved up the steps, his palm skimming the rail as he ascended.

The evening breeze lifted the hairs on his arms, bringing a sense of welcome relief. He sipped again from the golden cup, the wine warming him, slowly silencing the restlessness that dogged his every step. He strolled the length of the roof, avoiding the parapet that overlooked the court of women. Even from this distance, he would not be able to escape their arguments if he stood too close to their roof. Often, when Abigail used to sit under the shade of the palm tree and stitch beautiful patterns in cloth, he would look down on her and she would catch him watching. A twinge of lingering grief accompanied the memory, and he closed his eyes, forcing it away. He could not bring her back, and the memories did him no good except to sour his mood.

He moved to the far end of the roof, away from the women’s court, and edged his way to the parapet. The strumming of a lyre coming from a neighbor’s house below caught his attention. He rested a hand on the rail, his gaze searching for the source of the sound. At last he spied a woman seated on a bench in the inner courtyard of her home, her head bent over a small lyre. The music, soft and haunting, made his throat thicken, and emotion filled his chest. He heaved a sigh, his knees going weak. He gripped the parapet to steady himself. Her back was to him, and he had to stand just right to see into her courtyard, whose high walls would normally keep it hidden from his view.

The music continued, its power unnerving. Who was this woman who could strum the strings with such passion, such feeling? The tune’s melancholy flair matched the exact cadence of his heart. Why had he never heard her before? But the question was easily answered, as he rarely strode along this side of the roof at this time of night. Perhaps she kept the music to herself most of the time.

He stood spellbound until the chalice grew heavy in his hand, and he thought to leave her to herself, feeling like an intruder upon something private and sacred. But a moment later, she set the lyre in a leather sack and handed it to a servant, then turned and waited as another servant stripped her of her robe and tunic.

David’s pulse leapt like a gazelle as she stepped into a bronze basin and the servant poured a thin stream of water over her head. The woman winced, her eyes closed, her hands lifted to the sky. Her dark hair cascaded downward to her slim waist, and he could not stop his gaze from traveling to the edge of each strand, then lingering over her glistening skin.

Heat spread through him, a fire burning and unstoppable. Who was she? Shadows spilled across her courtyard, making her body visible only in the flickering lamplight. But the darkness could not hide the perfection, the beauty, standing so innocently below him. She could not know he watched her. Not from where he stood. But when she glanced toward his roof, he took a step back, embarrassed at the thought of being caught. He had no excuse to stay here. She was obviously going through the ritual purification prescribed for women by the law. A devout woman and a musician. Did she share his lonely heart?

The possibility cheered him. Would she understand his need, his own empty longings, that no woman seemed able to fulfill? The sound of her voice talking to a servant drew his eyes back to her again. The sight made his heart stand still. Her head was bowed as though she was praying, and the servant poured the last of the water over her head, the liquid sliding easily over her exposed skin into the basin. Every movement made his blood pump thicker, faster, until desire blocked every thought from his mind.

When she stepped from the basin and accepted a towel from the servant, David’s heart quickened. He must act now before she slipped into her house. He moved unwillingly from the spot where he could see her and walked a few paces away to the stairs. At his summons, Benaiah hurried up the steps.

“Yes, my lord.”

David motioned with his hand for Benaiah to follow. He peered down at the precise spot and breathed a sigh that she still stood drying herself in the courtyard. David pointed to her and met Benaiah’s gaze. Benaiah backed away and David followed.

“Send someone and find out who this woman is,” David whispered.

Benaiah nodded and left to do David’s bidding. David stepped back to watch as the woman released the towel and allowed the servant to slip a fresh tunic over her head, his heartbeat picking up its pace again, anticipation filling him. If she were not married, he would send for her father this night and arrange a betrothal and marriage before week’s end. What need would there be to wait? He could easily afford any bride price and required no waiting period. His servants might balk at putting a wedding together so quickly, but they would do his bidding whether they agreed with him or not.

He rested a hand on his beard, cupping his chin, entertaining a smile. He would set her apart from the other women. They would spend every evening he could spare making music together in her lavish apartment, the apartment he would have built for her once she belonged to him. In the meantime, he would allow her to stay in his own rooms. And why not? He had given Abigail the privilege before Chileab was born. Even if this woman conceived soon after their marriage, he would keep her close.

A throat cleared as someone approached. He stepped away once again as the woman retreated into her house, her absence leaving a void in his heart. No matter, if he could bring her into his home at week’s end. How was it possible he had not seen such a beautiful woman before now? He glanced up at Benaiah, reading warning in the man’s gaze.

“You have news.”

Benaiah gave a nod toward the woman’s house. “Is this not Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and wife of Uriah the Hittite?” He crossed his arms over his chest, immovable.

David looked away, feeling a sudden death blow to his plans. Bathsheba. He knew that name. They had met before, and he had dismissed her beauty because she belonged to one of his mighty men. He glanced from his roof to hers, wondering how it was possible that he didn’t recognize it earlier. She was the woman who had captured his attention more than a year ago. But not so completely. Not in this way.

Irritation spiked within his breast, the earlier restlessness making his feet tread the length of the roof and back again, once, twice. But the desire to have her would not flee. He glanced toward her roof, the music of her laughter and her lyre silent now. Her husband was fighting before the gates of Rabbah, as was her father. He could take her and they would never know of it.

His palms grew slick with sweat, his heart drumming an anxious rhythm at the thought. Would she come? But of course she would come. He was the king. She would have no choice but to obey his summons, and once she was in his private rooms . . . He let his thoughts drift, imagination making his blood pump harder again. When had a woman made him yearn for her so? Not since Abigail had stood before him in the cave the night he’d married her.

“Send for her.” He walked to where his guard stood waiting and met Benaiah’s gaze without flinching.

Benaiah’s look held censure, reminding David of the man who had once disdained Saul’s annulment of his marriage to Michal. “She is the wife of another man, my lord.”

“Whatever happens, you are not responsible. Just do as I say.”

Benaiah shook his head. “In good conscience, I cannot approve of this, my lord.” He held David’s gaze a moment longer than he would normally have done. “I will send someone else.” He turned without a word and descended the steps.

15

Bathsheba rested her foot on a low bench of her bedchamber while Tirzah sat on the floor, drawing henna patterns on Bathsheba’s arches and heels. The activity was useless since Uriah was not home to see their efforts, but it cheered her to do something besides keep the laws and do the chores, day after day with no one besides the servants to share them with.

“You can do my fingernails when you finish. Though I’m not sure why I bother.” Bathsheba leaned back against the cushions Tirzah had propped on the bed for her comfort, sighing. “When will this war end? I am so tired, Tirzah! I want to do something, to go somewhere, to hold my husband close again.”

“Hold still. You’re moving too much.” Tirzah dipped the reed in the dye and tsked. “Uriah could come home tomorrow, and this will have all been worth it.”

Bathsheba humphed and crossed her arms. “Sabba would have said something if the end of the war was near, and you know it.” She narrowed her eyes at the servant. “You haven’t heard something you’re not telling me, have you?”

Tirzah shook her head, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Nothing new. The only rumor I’ve heard is the one I told you about earlier, that the king might leave soon for Rabbah. The city will become quieter and even more boring once he leaves. If it’s true.”