Bathsheba (20 page)

David dipped a piece of flat bread into the red lentil stew. The spicy cumin sparked his taste but did nothing to tempt his flagging appetite. The summer heat only added to the oppressive warmth of the bronze wall torches necessary to light the banquet hall. The New Moon feast marked a month since he had held Bathsheba in his arms. He should have been able to forget her by now, as he so easily did many other women. But he could not shake what would become of her if her husband ever discovered their union.

Conversation floated in and around him, and he did his best to seem attentive, but a heavy weight
h
ad taken residence in his gut, pressed down like a millstone, and sapped his strength. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his bed and hide from court life. But his counselors found him at every turn. Oh, to fly away like a bird and be at rest.

He never should have taken her. What had possessed him to call for and claim a married woman? He had become like one of the foolish ones who moved about the streets, giving in to the wayward women on the edges of town whose husbands were away at war or on business, who did not care if they dishonored them.

Bathsheba had not been that kind of woman, and he knew deep down that she mourned even now for what she had done. For what he had made her do.

The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat, and the incessant voices of his men and his wives grew louder—a thread of laughter here, the sound of bickering there. He shoved his gilded chair away from the table and rose. A bevy of servants rushed to his aid, but he waved them off and stalked out the side door, down the winding halls, to the stairs leading to the roof directly above his chambers. The roof he had avoided for a month for fear of what he might do if he saw her again.

His legs felt sluggish, and he struggled to climb despite his desperate need to do so, to get away from the constant demands on him. When at last he reached the top, he gripped the parapet and staggered along the edge of the roof, grieving. As he’d grieved for Abigail, and yet the anguish was clearly not the same.

He moved slowly, his heart picking up the rhythm of a silent drum. Would he find her going through her ritual purification as he’d done the month before? Would her music soothe the anxious lines now visible in the bronze mirror above his brow?

He paused at the spot where he’d seen her last, his eyes closed, dreading, hoping . . . but the sounds below held no music, and when he looked into the courtyard, the bath sat perched along a wall, the water jars untouched. Lights flickered inside the house—perhaps she had guests for her own New Moon feast—but no one moved on the roof or in the courtyard.

She could have already completed her purification. Or perhaps her time had yet to come. The thought turned the weight in his gut to solid stone. Surely not. In her years of marriage to Uriah she had borne no children, and he’d spent only one night with her . . .

His feet stumbled backward, his grip reaching for the railing behind him. He shook the thought aside like an unwanted messenger. But as he made his way to his bedchamber below, where her presence still lingered in every breath of his imagination, he could not shake the foreboding fear his thoughts had conjured. If by some chance he was right, his troubles were just beginning.

Bathsheba sat on a bench beneath the open tent Uriah had set up for her on the roof to give her a place to weave or spin without the harsh rays of the sun scorching her. One of the many things he had done to make her life more pleasant, like the bronze basin he had acquired for her bath in her own courtyard so she could carry out her purification ritual in private. A ritual she would not practice this month, or many months hence, if her fears were proved true.

A sinking feeling swept over her, drowning her in an ever-present sense of despair, as it had every morning for the past week as she waited, counting the days, hoping against hope, silently pleading with Adonai to show her she was wrong. How could she possibly miss her time after only one night with the king, when nearly four years with Uriah had produced no heir? She could not possibly be with child. She was barren, wasn’t she?

She glanced at the basket at her side, where the spindle and distaff waited for her to pick them up and continue her work, but she rested a hand on her middle instead, fighting a queasy, unsettled feeling. What should she do? If she carried a child, she must tell the king. He’d promised to protect her from anyone who would speak against her, but how could he possibly protect her from her own husband? Her fate, the punishment for adultery, was death by stoning.

A deep shudder worked through her, and her queasy feeling grew. She bent forward, holding her stomach, tears filling her eyes. Uriah was so strict when it came to the law. Would he cover her sin and claim the child as his own, or demand the truth be upheld and let her pay the penalty the law required?

She dropped to her knees on the hard roof floor, rocking back and forth, knowing in one moment that he would surely demand her death, and certain in the next that his love would conquer even this. But would it? Uriah was a man of honor, and his honor, his duty, came above all else. Oh, what should she do?

She had to tell someone. She needed to confirm her fears, to be sure. Aunt Talia’s face came to mind, but she dismissed the thought out of hand. She loved her aunt, but Aunt Talia would surely tell Chava or, worse, her grandfather, and neither would keep their knowledge to themselves.

The sound of footsteps jerked her to a sitting position, and she quickly swiped her tears away. Tirzah poked her head under the tent, concern lining her plain features. Her dark hair lay tucked beneath a brown veil, and her sturdy arms held a batch of new wool ready to be carded and spun into thread. She set her burden on the ground beside the bench where Bathsheba had been sitting and knelt at Bathsheba’s side.

“What is wrong, mistress?” She placed a hand on Bathsheba’s shoulder, but the contact made Bathsheba stiffen. She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked at her maidservant for the briefest moment, then glanced beyond her toward the palace roof. Memories tumbled through her, and the stark realization of what she had done filled her with new dread.

Tirzah sat up but made no attempt to draw closer. She held out a hand in supplication. “Please let me help you. You have not been yourself and—” She turned, her gaze following Bathsheba’s. “What happened that night?”

Bathsheba swallowed hard as the silence lingered. She had no need to explain herself to a servant, yet Tirzah was probably the only person loyal enough not to cause her more harm than she already faced by her own choosing.

But she allowed the silence to deepen, listening to the melancholy song of a dove perched along the parapet. Indecision warred within her. She rested her chin on her knees and could no longer stop the tears when she looked once more into Tirzah’s assessing gaze.

“Were you with him?”

Bathsheba nodded and sniffed, squeezing her eyes tight against the stinging tears.

Tirzah shifted her sturdy bulk closer, leaning toward Bathsheba’s ear. “There will be no need for purification this month, will there?” Her understanding look gave Bathsheba a sense of comfort.

“How did you know?”

“You have not been yourself since you returned home late that night.”

Fear mounted inside her breast. “Do the other servants suspect?”

Tirzah gave her head a quick shake. “No. I don’t think so.”

“But you don’t know.”

Tirzah tipped her head back as though she were thinking. “No. I’m sure they don’t. I haven’t told anyone, and no one knows you like I do. Besides, no one else saw you come home that night or knew about the combs.”

“The combs?”

Tirzah’s smile was gentle and sad. “You left the ivory combs at the palace. What other reason could you possibly have to let down your hair?”

Bathsheba’s eyes filmed again as she looked away, unable to accept the kindness in her servant’s gaze. Tirzah would be accused if she kept such a secret from Uriah. She could be dismissed or beaten or sold into slavery.

“Will you tell my husband?” Her voice sounded small in her own ears. She was a child again in her father’s house, with Tirzah caring for her as she had done since her mother had died in childbirth.

Tirzah’s arms came around her then, and she pulled her into a motherly embrace, though they were closer in age to be sisters many years apart. “I would never betray your trust, Bathsheba. Your secret is safe with me.”

“It will not remain a secret for long. Soon everyone will know, and my life will end.” She choked on a sob, taking in Tirzah’s comforting scent, burying her face in her maid’s shoulder.

Tirzah patted her back and let her weep in silence until Bathsheba could no longer summon another tear. Exhaustion weighed her down. What she wouldn’t give for one peaceful night’s sleep where guilt did not plague her and fear did not match her guilt.

“The child is the king’s then.” Tirzah cupped Bathsheba’s face, coaxing eye contact.

Bathsheba nodded. “It can be no other’s.”

Tirzah moved her hands to gently grip Bathsheba’s shoulders. “Then you must inform the king. He will know what to do.”

Bathsheba held Tirzah’s gaze, reading her maid’s insistence, knowing she spoke wisdom. She acknowledged her with a look, then turned her gaze to the palace once more, where her message would soon change whatever it was the king thought of her. If he still thought of her at all.

He had said he would not forget her. Whether he meant it then or not, now he would have no choice.

18

Bathsheba held the quill over the parchment Tirzah had secured for her in the marketplace, each letter penned with utmost care. The lessons her father had insisted on giving her now proved most helpful, though for all the wrong reasons. If she’d had to pay a scribe to scratch out her words, she would have had one more person to trust to keep her secret safe.

Her hand shook as she dipped it in the ink and tapped the end against the clay jar. Tirzah sat opposite her at the worktable in the cooking room, the only light a small oil lamp pressed up close against the parchment, but not too close to catch the expensive material on fire.

As the last word dried on the page, Bathsheba read the message through blurred vision.
I am with child.
She would not sign her name or address the message. He would know by the press of her husband’s seal on the wax.

A tear dripped, leaving a soft smudge mark on the word
child
. How appropriate. Would he notice or guess the pain this had caused? Would he do anything at all to stop her death?