Michal (27 page)

“I’ll overlook your disrespect for the moment, Michal, though I should punish you for it. Don’t think I haven’t considered the thought.” He bent next to her ear. “But if you don’t change your attitude, I will be forced to resort to other measures.”

Every fiber in her being longed to jerk free and run from him, but common sense told her that feigned submission was probably better. Someday, when David returned for her and she was queen, she’d repay Paltiel for his impertinence. In the meantime, if she wanted to gain control, she must give in once in a while.

“I’m sorry, my lord. Forgive your maidservant.” She lowered her lashes in a humble stance. “I don’t understand why you don’t want me to come up here, though.”

Paltiel’s eyes assessed her. “Let’s just say you don’t need to be reminded of the past.” He kissed her forehead. “Understand?” He released his grip and guided her toward the steps.

“Yes, my lord.” She understood plenty. It didn’t mean she had to obey.

Cool mountain breezes lifted the turban from David’s forehead as he stood with staff in hand watching the road, a mere threadlike line winding away from the cliffs westward toward the sea. A sea clearly visible from the hills of Gath, but in the desert stronghold, a mere memory against the cloudless blue sky. His gaze lingered on the far-off horizon just the same. Oh, to be like a bird and fly off to such places. He blew out a slow breath. At least the stronghold offered them safety. After months at Adullam and his trek into Moab to Mizpah to deliver his parents to safety, it felt good to rest without having to constantly watch his back. Even if Saul coaxed every man in Israel to attack him here, they’d never scale the cliff sidewalls of the mountaintop fortress undetected.

He pulled his eyes away from the comforting vista and looked down on the bustling city below. His contingent of six hundred men now burgeoned with women and children, creating a community rather than a military atmosphere.

If only Michal could have joined him here. That a year had passed since he’d lost her . . . The news Benaiah had brought still grieved him, and it irked him to realize that he had allowed her to have such a hold over him. It was time to put her aside and take a new bride. If Adonai still planned to make him king, a promise he intermittently doubted and clung to, then he needed a wife to give him sons.

The king has given your wife to another man.

His fists involuntarily flexed, jaw clenching. He stared at the view before him and sighed. Yes, he needed a wife. But who? On impulse, he turned and began the slow climb down from his lookout post. He passed a group of women sitting around a fire pit, grinding wheat kernels. A short distance from them, another handful of women sat pounding dried tree bark. The spicy scent lingered in the puffs of reddish-brown air, and David stood still, groping for a distant memory. Glancing up, he spotted Joab trotting toward him.

“Joab, smell that.” He sniffed and pointed to the second group of women. “Where have I smelled that scent before?”

Joab quirked one eyebrow at David. “Cinnamon is familiar fare, David. You’ve smelled the spice all your life.” His quizzical look deepened into a scowl. “Are you all right, Uncle?”

David rubbed his scraggly beard. “I’ve smelled it someplace, though. It came from a woman, like her skin or hair was dipped in the scent.”

Joab lifted both brows now and smiled. “Women often mix different spices to create appealing perfumes, my lord. You probably got a whiff of one of them.”

David shook his head and stuffed his hands in the folds of his robe. His gaze traversed the compound, his mind whirring. A moment later he slapped his thigh.

“Samuel! I smelled it the last time I saw him.”

“Well, of course, Samuel’s anointing oil was scented with cinnamon,” Joab said. His doubtful expression made David chuckle. “I hardly think your anointing was a laughing matter, my lord.”

David sobered but still courted an irrepressible smile. “No, no, Nephew, that’s not what I mean. When I was running from Saul, I went to see Samuel, and I met a girl at the well. What was her name?” He scratched his turbaned head. “Ahinoam! Yes. I remember because it was the same name as Michal’s mother.” He looked at Joab. “She was from Jezreel, but she was living with an uncle in Ramah.”

“So?” Joab tapped an impatient foot.

“So, I want you to get her for me. If I can’t have Michal, I must take another wife.” David’s pulse picked up its pace, and for the first time in months, hope pierced his heart.

“What if she’s already spoken for?” Joab asked.

David clasped his hands over the end of his staff. Joab had a point. The girl had been of marriageable age when he’d met her over a year ago. The chances of her being available were slim. “Obviously I will have to find someone else then.” He took two steps away from Joab, then abruptly turned back. “You don’t usually run to greet me—what did you want?”

Joab glanced behind him, then faced David. “A prophet has come to see you.”

David looked beyond Joab. The prophet Gad, one of Samuel’s students, walked with purpose toward him. David brushed past his nephew and embraced Gad, kissing each cheek. Joab came up behind David, greeting the prophet with a nod.

“Welcome.” David stepped aside to look at the man. “What brings you to our humble dwelling?” He moved his arm in a wide, sweeping arc toward the surrounding homes that had become their village.

“The Lord sent me.”

David studied the prophet for a moment, uneasiness tickling his neck.

“Has something happened to my parents? The king of Moab assured me of his protection when we took them there, but if he’s hurt them—”

“Your parents are well,” Gad interrupted, his glowing eyes steadily holding David’s.

“Is it Jonathan then? Or Michal?” His heart raced.

“I honestly don’t know how they fare, David. I’ve heard nothing.”

David’s chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “What does the Lord want then?”

Trust Me, David.

The thought swept over him, bringing with it waves of peace.

“The Lord says to leave the stronghold. He wants you to return to Israel.”

“Where Saul can easily find us,” Joab said.

David looked at his nephew, then turned serious eyes on Gad. “We will leave at dawn. Whatever the Lord wants, we will do.”

The black goat-hair tents were easily camouflaged among the trees of the forest of Hereth, giving David a small amount of comfort. It wasn’t the most inviting place to bring a new bride, but Ahinoam had seemed pleased with the prospect of marrying him, despite the circumstances.

He watched her now as he sat shaving the bark from a sturdy piece of olive wood to shape into a flute for one of the young men, a promising musician. She looked up from the mortar and pestle to sift the soft grains of wheat into a clay bowl. A soft blush covered her cheeks when he smiled at her. She smiled in return but quickly averted her gaze. She was more skittish than he remembered, as though in constant fear of offending him. The thought grated, but he brushed it aside, certain he was imagining things. She was simply adjusting to marriage and would soon grow accustomed to him. Still, their love did not hold the longing and passion he’d had with Michal.

The familiar feeling of betrayal filled him, and he bent his head over the olive wood once more. Adonai surely had a purpose in allowing things to continue as they did, just as surely as He had a reason to move him from the stronghold to the forest. He only wished he understood what that purpose was. What gain was there in his going to the ground? His death would not accomplish Adonai’s purposes, not if his anointing meant what Samuel had insisted it did.

He took a breath and released it, running his thumb along the smooth wood. He’d already learned the hard way that obedience to Adonai was far better than taking matters into his own hands—as he’d seen all too clearly in Gath—even if he lost his life in the process. Though he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the prospect of landing in Sheol just yet.

“David?” Joab’s voice came to him before his nephew emerged from the trees.

“What is it?” He set the wood aside and stood, grateful for the interruption to his unsettling thoughts.

Joab walked forward, his expression clearly troubled. “We have a visitor.”

A visitor was nothing unusual. Disgruntled men from every tribe, especially the tribe of Judah, continually joined him.

“Who is it?”

“Abiathar, the priest.”

David’s stomach tightened. “Take me to him.” Ahinoam should not be witness to whatever had troubled Joab.

“I couldn’t get a word out of him,” Joab said. David followed him through the trees to a clearing near Joab’s tent, where a man sat near the cold fire pit. “Perhaps you will have more success.” Joab pointed to a small man whose arms were wrapped around his bent knees. David felt a punch in his gut when the man lifted his head to meet David’s gaze.

“Abiathar?” He’d seen the priest’s son helping his father with the sacrifices on his numerous visits to the tabernacle. But one look at him now told David something was terribly wrong. “What happened?”

The young man released his grip on his knees and scooped up handfuls of ash and dust over his head to mingle with his already ash-coated hair and beard. It was then David noticed the torn robe and the priestly ephod lain out at his feet. The man sat unmoving, then slowly rocked back and forth, a soft moaning coming from his lips.

David glanced at Joab, who shrugged his confusion, his dark scowl telling David more than words could say. Handling a crisis, dealing with people, or knowing the right thing to do or say in any given situation demanded wisdom—wisdom deeper and greater than any he’d learned in the sheepfolds, when God had taught him to shepherd helpless animals. Now more than ever, he needed Adonai to teach him to shepherd people.

O Adonai, give me strength.

He lowered his body to the dust, knelt beside Abiathar, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The man’s moaning grew to loud keening, and David felt his own tears of sympathy dampen his beard. When at last the young man’s tears were spent, he wiped them from his cheeks with his sleeve and looked into David’s eyes.

“Saul has murdered all the priests of Nob, all the women, all the children, my father, my mother, my brothers, my sisters. I alone escaped to tell you.”

He’d guessed it was bad, but hearing the truth . . . Waves of shock rolled over him, stealing his breath. “What happened? Please tell me,” David finally said.

Abiathar worked his jaw, but no words came out. David waited, patting the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right. Later, when time has passed, you can tell me—”

“No, I want to tell you now.”

David nodded and sat back, hands clasped beneath his chin, giving Abiathar his full attention.

“Saul called for my father . . .” He averted his gaze and coughed to clear his throat. “He demanded to know why my father had helped you when you came to him a year ago. My father defended you, so Saul told his guards to kill him and all of my relatives who were with him—the other priests.” His chest lifted in a shuddering sigh. “They wouldn’t do it. They knew the old king was out of his mind. So Saul turned to the man who had betrayed you and my father.”

“Doeg the Edomite.” Hadn’t he known? David’s stomach twisted. “How did you escape?”

“I ran away. I saw what Doeg intended to do, and I fled. Not a single guard followed me. Father urged me to go. I would have stayed with him . . .”

“You did the right thing.” David studied the trees behind Abiathar, then at last met the young man’s troubled gaze. “I knew when I saw Doeg there that day that he would surely tell Saul. I’ve caused the death of everyone in your father’s house.” He spread his hands in front of him in a gesture of supplication. “I’m sorry, Abiathar.” David released a slow breath at the man’s nod. He deserved the man’s blame, not his forgiveness. “Stay with me, Abiathar. Do not fear. For he who seeks my life seeks your life, but you will be safe with me.”

David rested his hand again on Abiathar’s slumped shoulder and stood. He strode from the area, Joab on his heels. “See that he has everything he needs,” he told Joab, then moved beyond him back to his tent.