Bathsheba (34 page)

David rubbed a hand over his beard, seeing Amnon’s ruse for what it was, hating himself for believing the lie. How could he insist on a marriage that started in such a way? This was not lust, as he knew only too well. This was hatred. He could not, would not, subject his daughter to such a thing.

“I will wait.” If in time Amnon repented, and if his repentance was genuine and he sought Tamar’s hand in marriage, then he would reconsider. But not now. Not like this.

“He is cursed. He should be cut off from the people.” Joab’s comment held no vehemence, only observation.

“He has forfeited any right to rule in my stead.”

“The people may demand more.”

“For now, this is all I can do.”

Joab’s look was grim as he walked to the door. “Absalom may not be so forgiving.” He acknowledged both David and Bathsheba with a silent nod and left.

“You should go to your daughter and to her mother.” Bathsheba rested her head on David’s shoulder after the door shut behind Joab’s retreating back. “They need you.”

David’s chest lifted in a heavy sigh as his arms came around her. He tilted her head back and his dark eyes searched hers. She held his gaze, hoping her love was visible, that no trace of hostility or competition marred her affection.

“You are incredible,” he whispered against her ear. “After all I’ve done—”

“Don’t.” She placed two fingers gently against his lips. “We cannot live in what’s past.”

“What is past keeps coming back. The curse haunts my every step.”

Bathsheba shook her head. “No, my lord. The past does not return to haunt us. Adonai has forgiven, and as you have often told me, He does not keep a record of our wrongs. He has wiped them away from His memory. We are the ones who allow our sins to haunt our minds.”

He curled his fingers over hers and kissed them. “The consequences don’t go away, beloved. The sword will never depart from my house because of my sin. I have brought this upon us all.” The anger he’d shown moments before had dissipated. His shoulders slumped, a man broken.

“God will give us grace to deal with the sword when it comes. Didn’t He, in His grace, give us Solomon? Not everything in our future will carry the sword. Someday we will know peace again.”

The distant wailing had quieted, the night sounds carrying crickets and the soft whisper of the wind in the trees. David placed both hands on her arms, his gaze steady, his look no longer hopeless. “I would ask you to come with me. I am no good with women’s tears.”

She touched his bearded cheek and smiled. “And I would come if it would help you, my lord. But I fear my presence would give you more than tears to handle.”

Despite Nathan’s acceptance of their son and Adonai’s forgiveness, many in the palace, especially David’s wives, considered her an adulteress and refused to acknowledge her favored status with the king, choosing to ignore her and the place she held in David’s heart.

He reached for her hands, clasping them in both of his, kissing the tips of her fingers again. He pulled her close and kissed her as though he were afraid to leave, his passion eager, needing her.

“Come back to me and tell me what happens, if you can,” she said when he at last broke contact, his eyes blazing.

He sifted his fingers through her hair. “I will be back before court. I don’t know if Maacah will welcome me or kick me out. If she welcomes me, I may be longer.”

She nodded and smiled, denying the little kick in her stomach, the one that held jealousy where she knew no jealousy could reside. To imagine him in Maacah’s arms—that arrogant, beautiful woman whose children were the most honored among the palace courts, whose son was now first in line for David’s throne—was hard. Too hard. But she closed her eyes for the briefest moment and insisted this was the right thing to do. Maacah and Tamar needed him.

“Go in peace, my love.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, a kiss he would not soon forget.

David knocked on the door of Maacah’s apartment, the sound a loud echo in the quiet, predawn halls. He had given her time for the tears to subside, but decided sleep would not come again to him this night, and grief could not wait. Benaiah stood a few steps back, his silent presence giving David strength.

Footsteps sounded from inside the apartment, and the door creaked open. Maacah’s maidservant put a hand to her mouth, a soft gasp escaping her, and hurried to open the door and bid him enter. She bowed low, then scurried down the hall.

He stepped into the sitting room and walked to the window looking out on Maacah’s private courtyard. A small altar sat in a corner of the stone court, surrounded by shrubbery. David frowned. It had been many months, years even, since he had visited Maacah’s apartment. Had she taken to the worship of her father’s gods in his absence? Michal had once kept teraphim in their home, a gift from her mother, but she would never keep such things here. Not now, after her restoration to Yahweh.

But Maacah had never quite embraced his God. Not as he had hoped. Tamar seemed to accept, to believe—but then what did he really know of his daughter? Absalom, whom he knew far better . . . he wasn’t so sure. The young man was too confident, too arrogant, to be humble before his Maker. Though at times David thought he glimpsed a softer heart.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Lamplight quickly illumined the darkened room, and servants swept in, plumping cushions and filling goblets with wine. Maacah stood just inside the room, arms crossed, her eyes swollen and sharp, her lips pulled into a thin, hard line.

Silence moved between them like something vivid, alive. David’s stomach clenched along with his jaw, knowing anything he said to her would not make things better, could not restore what was lost.

“Where is she?” he said at last, taking a step toward Maacah. It was Tamar who needed his comfort, and the least he could do was check on her.

“In her room. She’ll be staying with Absalom once she calms down. He will provide for her now.” Maacah’s eyes were daggers, her words dipped in poison. She lifted her chin, her defiance challenging him.

“That is not for you or her to decide. I am her father.”

“Who sent her to her doom! What were you thinking to command her to visit her brother like that, without a chaperone, alone with only servants to attend? When have you ever trusted that son of Ahinoam?” She spat the words and turned her head as if she would truly spit onto the soft wool rug, but the action was only pretense for his benefit. Something Maacah had perfected in the years he had known her.

“He was ill. It seemed like a reasonable request.” But did it? He’d asked himself the question over and over again and knew in a heartbeat that if he could repeat the decision, he would not make the same one again.

“Reasonable. Ach!” she spat again, only this time spittle actually fell from her mouth, and he knew if she had been standing closer, she might have purposefully landed it on him. Her hatred was palpable.

“Let me see her.” He took another step toward her, his gaze steady, giving her what he hoped was a compassionate yet uncompromising look.

Maacah returned his gaze but soon looked away. She plucked a clay lamp from its niche along the wall, turned without a word, and led the way down the hall. David followed, his thoughts churning. He knew how to comfort a wife, but a daughter? He had spent his life in the company of his sons, his comrades, and his counselors, leaving his daughters to the care of the women. The few times they came to him or he visited their homes had been scattered throughout their growing-up years. What kind of a man did that make him?

The hall turned sharply to the left, and a door stood shut on the right. Maacah stopped, gave a soft knock, and opened the door without waiting for a response. David entered the room, surprised at the many lamps illuminating the spacious interior. A small sitting room held a couch and table while a bed draped in bright curtains stood like a guardian to Tamar’s former purity. Her garments had been just as colorful. Garments she would no longer wear as a desolate woman.

His daughter, looking young and vulnerable, lay huddled among the covers, buried behind the curtains, only visible because of the many lamps chasing away what was left of the night’s shadows.

“Tamar!” Maacah’s words snapped like quick flames. “Get up. Your father has come.”

David winced at the woman’s tone. Did she think he expected such a display of control? But he understood the anger was directed at him. He had aimed his own anger in the exact same location. He braced himself, knowing more was coming.

“It’s all right.” He stepped farther into the room, closer to Maacah, and placed a hand on her arm.

She jerked at his touch, but to his surprise did not move away from him. She needed his comfort, as Bathsheba had suggested, but he knew in an instant she would not accept it.

He held up a hand, a gesture of surrender, and walked to the bed, where Tamar had not moved despite Maacah’s barked order. He sat beside her. She scooted to the far corner, pulled the covers to her neck, and stared at him with wild eyes. The girl was beautiful like her mother, and would have made some man a fine wife, ensuring a treaty of peace with a foreign nation. Perhaps even with her mother’s own country, to secure that alliance for another generation. But now it would never be.

He looked at her frightened features, his heart breaking.
Amnon, how could you have done such a thing?

He longed to pull her close, to protect her, to promise her the world, to force Amnon to do what he knew his son would not. “Tamar, my dove, I am sorry. This should never have happened to you.” He extended his hand, his voice soft, trying to soothe the girl’s fears. “I won’t hurt you.”

Tamar’s tears came in silence, and when he reached for her hand and pulled her to him, she did not resist. His arms came around her, and she buried her head against his robe and wept great sobs.

“He—he forced me . . . and then he sent me away. I begged him . . . I begged him to let me stay . . . He sent me away!”

Her wails cut deep. He had no words to comfort her, her grief mingling with his own. He held her in silence, letting her weep.

When her tears quieted, he patted her back and kissed her forehead. “What did your brother Absalom say to you?” he asked.

She hiccuped on a sob and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. “He said, ‘Has Amnon your brother been with you? But now hold your peace, my sister. He is your brother, do not take this thing to heart.’ How can he say that? I cannot hold my peace!”

David touched her arm and nodded. Tamar looked at him, her expectations swimming in the pool of her tears. Absalom had not reacted in anger as David had done. Did his son think this thing was of no consequence? Or did he have other motives behind his words? But it would do no good to suggest such a thing here to Absalom’s mother or his desolate sister.

“Your mother said Absalom has promised to care for you,” David said at last, “so when you are ready, go and stay with him. You will be a blessing in your brother’s house, my dove.”

He stood then, suddenly anxious to get away, to escape from this woman, this child, who looked at him with eyes so full of pain, a pain he could not fix. If he could, he would go back and undo everything that had led to this moment, erase the bitterness, the quiet agony so expressive in those doelike eyes. If only he could . . .

He looked at Maacah, whose dark eyes, once so beguiling and lustrous, were ringed with dark circles, their expression hard, almost soulless. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her posture rigid. She did not want his comfort. So he would not give it.