Bathsheba (31 page)

His servants came by with trays of food, but he sent them away, tasting only water, his tears his food, the earth his bed. He saw the concerned looks, the worried glances. Even Benaiah had grown more watchful, as though he wondered if David had lost his senses and was ready to take action to correct the situation.

A week passed. Bathsheba’s distant wails turned to keening on the seventh day. His servants stood in his chambers, looking through the arch at him where he sat on the bench, where he had first shared Bathsheba’s kiss. He caught the anxious looks, saw them bend their heads together, whispering.

And he knew the day had come of which Nathan had spoken. The son he and Bathsheba had conceived in their sin was dead.

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Thin white clouds touched the outer recesses of the heavens, doing little to block the heat of the sun as David’s entourage moved from the child’s burial at the tomb of the kings back toward the palace. Had he still been living the lie he’d lived for the past ten months, he might have taken the child to the cave where they had laid Uriah’s body to rest, pretending the child was conceived to honor Uriah’s name.

But the truth was known now. He was not a kinsman redeemer. He was a murderer, an adulterer, and he would not try to deceive the people again. He glanced at Bathsheba, saw the way her slender body huddled forward like an aged woman, and his heart constricted. He would do anything to take the burden from her shoulders, to lift her head from its bent position, to restore her joy. But she’d made it clear she no longer wanted anything to do with him. And why not? He had ruined her life. Such thoughts of restoration were foolish—impossible dreams of an overwrought mind.

After seven days of fasting and weeping and praying, laying prostrate in the dust, he had at last washed and put on his royal robes for the burial, though food had yet to touch his lips. He would eat soon enough, after he took his leave of the procession to sit before the ark of the Lord. His heart beat a normal rhythm now, despite the curious and contemptuous looks of the people gazing down on their group from the windows and roofs of their houses along Jerusalem’s main thoroughfare. He deserved their scorn. Would they also reject him as their king?

The thought troubled him, and he slowed his step. He glanced behind at the women and children, the few who had agreed to join the march to the burial cave. Some surely resented that he’d laid the child in his own tomb. Others resented that Bathsheba was given such attention at all. Most of his other wives would not speak to her.

He looked her way again, longing to go to her and comfort her, but there was too much to say and no guarantee she would allow him to say it. He had almost commanded his other wives to come to support Bathsheba, to show a unified front to the inhabitants of the city, but a part of him feared they would not heed his word, making him look more foolish yet. Even Michal, who had finally accepted friendship with Abigail, walked with Abigail’s children, but distant from his grieving wife. His older sons had refused to come at all, their bitterness impossible to deny.

His step slowed yet again, and he watched Bathsheba, knowing certain things would never be right again. Shame filled him as they neared the tent where the ark of the Lord rested. He knew with utter certainty that he did not deserve the forgiveness Adonai had offered.

The procession stopped when he did, and Benaiah approached.

“Send the people home, Benaiah. You can leave a guard to walk with me when I am finished.”

Benaiah gave a slight nod, then stepped away to do as David had commanded. At least his men still obeyed his voice, even if his wives and children would not.

He removed his sandals and set them near the door to the courtyard in front of the Tent of Meeting, then walked barefoot toward the curtain that separated the courtyard from the Holy Place, a place where the priests and Levites kept the lamps burning and the showbread fresh on the table before the Lord. His heart yearned for Adonai, for the close relationship they’d once had. He fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the swept dirt floor.

You are proved right when You speak and justified when You judge, Adonai. You are worthy to be praised.

Tears came, pooling in his eyes, seeping into his beard, dampening the earth.

Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me from Your presence or take Your Holy Spirit from me. Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit to sustain me. Then I will teach transgressors Your ways, and sinners will turn back to You.

He sat back, arms raised to the heavens. Surrender, full and sweet, swept through him, his heart yielding every part of him, giving back to God what rightly belonged to Him. David did not deserve mercy, and he could not demand the grace of Adonai, but he could rejoice in what had been given. He could offer upon God’s altar a grateful heart.

A slow and tentative peace replaced the guilt.
Worthy are You, O Adonai. Blessed is the man whose sins are forgiven!

Could it possibly be true? He searched his heart, looking for the despair he’d known only moments before, the shame that had threatened to send him to the abyss, but the sense of forgiveness was sure, his bloodguilt gone.

Blessed are You, O Most High, and blessed is the man whose sin Adonai will not count against him.

He lowered his hands and turned them over in the dim light. They were warrior’s hands but also shepherd’s hands. With Adonai’s help, he would lead Israel again.

Relief came like a mighty wind, his heart humbled.
Thank You, Adonai, for mercy, even in the death of this son.
He could not go where his son had gone. Not yet. And the babe would not return to him. One day he would join the child in the place of paradise where Adonai lived. Until then, he still had the work Adonai had planned for him.

David rose to his feet, his heart yearning heavenward, sensing in his spirit the relationship had been restored. Smiling, he walked back toward the curtained door at the entrance to the northern court, his stomach rumbling from his long fast.

If Adonai could forgive him such a terrible wrong, perhaps Bathsheba could welcome him again, allow him to comfort her. In time, she could conceive again and have another son to fill her empty arms.
Please, Adonai, let it be so.

He was not in the place of God that he could control life in the womb, but he knew that soon he would need to give Bathsheba far more than physical affection. He must draw her out and let her share her grief with him, even if he risked her rejection.

Restlessness overtook Bathsheba. If the king would allow it, she would walk the streets or else leave Jerusalem altogether, climb the Mount of Olives, fall beneath the trees, and weep for days. But she was as captive here in the palace as she had ever been in her father’s house or Uriah’s home. None of them had ever allowed her complete freedom to come and go without proper guards, always thinking to protect her from unscrupulous men, when the most unscrupulous of all stood watching in her own backyard.

A bitter laugh escaped her. She moved from her sitting room to the gardens David had portioned for her from his own abundance. She had slept every night—when sleep would come—on a mat in the sitting room, unable to visit her bedchamber or look upon the place where her son had so briefly lain. The very thought of him lying cold, unmoving, buried in a cave with no escape . . . She choked on a sob and lifted her gaze to the azure skies, their blue too cheery after her son’s death.

How long had it been since she had stood before the tomb weeping? Two months? Three? The days blurred together in their sameness, and despite the efforts of those around her, she could not rouse herself to live again. David had tried to visit her that first week, but she had refused even to look at him, and it seemed he had given up trying.

She’d been right about one thing. He did not need her. Any day now, he would send word and have her removed from these rooms, if his guilt would allow it—probably relegate her to a small apartment in the company of his bitter wives. Fitting, as she was now one of them.

She sank to the stone bench aligning the walk, feeling the weight of her sins in the weariness of her bones. She was an outcast here, a wife of adultery. She would never be accepted among his other wives—those taken to secure treaties or appease tribes, or for love.

But in truth, had he ever loved any of them? Did he know the meaning of the word?

Confusion stirred her insides, resuming the restlessness she could not shake. Rising on unsteady feet, she trod the smooth stones, squinting as she stepped away from the shade into the sun’s brightness. He didn’t love her. If he did, he would have visited again and at least made a feeble attempt to woo her out of her melancholy, to comfort her in her grief.

His kisses had tempted her, drawn her in, and made her love him. Made her believe she was wanted, cared for, cherished. She kicked a small stone into the bushes with a vehemence that caused her to stumble. How false his love!

Uriah had rarely spoken his affections, but his actions had shown them, had proved his love. And she had thrown his love away that night, forgetting how often Uriah had cherished her when he was home, had loved her in ways she didn’t notice until it was too late. She’d thought on it often since his death, since coming here and feeling so distant from all she’d known. Even her grandfather and Chava and Aunt Talia seldom visited now, and besides Tirzah, she had no friends here.

And still David did not come.

Oh, Adonai, why did I not die in my son’s place?
Even now she would join her son if God would allow it. Living was a more just punishment, perhaps a harsher punishment than death.

She took a turn in the gardens, where the shade of an almond tree beckoned, and she slowed her frantic pacing. She thought to sit on the bench beneath the tree but could not bear the weight of her heartache or the rawness of her loss. She swallowed hard and slipped to the stones on her knees, seeing again the still form of her son like a lamb sacrificed on her behalf.

“Oh, Adonai, forgive me!” Her whispered words mingled with the late afternoon breeze as the sun slipped behind a layer of quick-moving clouds. She clasped her hands in her lap and rocked back on her feet.

A touch on her shoulder made her insides grow still. David took hold of her shoulders and helped her stand, turning her to face him.

“Beloved.” He lifted his thumb and drew a line through her tears across her cheek.