Michal (7 page)

“Here is the head of the king’s enemy. May all your enemies become as this one, my lord.” David stood outside Saul’s tent, bowing low before the king, the bloody head of Goliath at his feet. The stench of sweat and blood filled David’s nostrils, while the buzz of excited male voices carried to him on the evening’s cool breeze.

“Whose son are you, young man?”

David’s head lifted at Abner’s question. The commander’s brawny arms were crossed, his gaze looking David up and down.

“I am the son of your servant Jesse the Bethlehemite.”

“The harpist.” Saul’s dark gray eyes flickered in recognition, his thin lips lifting his beard in a half smile.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You’ve done a good thing in Israel today, my son.” Saul’s brows dipped ever so slightly. David straightened, his weary senses alert to Saul’s mood. Would the demons attack him after such a victory?

“Thank you, my lord.”

David’s peripheral vision caught Jonathan’s lithe form striding across the compound toward them. “God be praised for you, David!” The prince clapped David’s back. “You have performed a great feat. May all who hear of it bless the Lord God, for there is indeed a God in Israel!”

David fell to one knee and bowed his head. “Thank you, my prince.”

Jonathan grabbed David’s arm and lifted him to his feet. “David has done a great service for you, Father. I assume you plan to reward him.”

Saul’s pinched expression moved from the bloody trophy to David. He interlaced his long fingers and began twirling his thumbs around each other. “Of course, my son. This is why we asked his lineage.” He glanced briefly at Abner. “His family will receive tax-exempt status and wealth beyond compare.”

“And Merab’s hand in marriage,” Jonathan stated.

“Of course . . . Merab’s hand in marriage. My daughter will get her wish, and the harpist will become my son-in-law. We’ll make the arrangements when we return to Gibeah.” Saul ducked into his tent, Abner at his heels, as the last words trailed behind him. Was the king regretting his promise?

Jonathan spoke to a standing guard and pointed to Goliath’s bloody head. “Take this trophy and impale it on the top of the ridge overlooking the Valley of Elah—in case our enemies should ever care to come this way again.” He looked at David and smiled. “Come to my tent, David. I have something for you.”

David followed in silence. Fires dotted the starlit camp, and the voices of the men reached his ears.

“Did you see the way David walked with such confidence toward Goliath?”

“And the look on Goliath’s face when the stone hit its mark.”

“They’re singing your praises, David.” Jonathan lifted the flap of his tent and ushered David inside.

“Yes, my lord. But it was God who gave the victory.”

Jonathan lit a clay lamp and hung it from the center tent post. “Sit down a moment.”

David sat on a woolen mat, noting the simple furnishings— a few cushions, a change of clothes, a water jug, a sword and shield, a bow leaning against one wall, and a closed food basket hanging from the ceiling. In wartime, the prince of Israel did not live in luxury like his father.

Jonathan stood silent, head bowed. Was he praying? When he lifted his head, his eyes were clear, and a serious smile turned the corners of his mouth. “Would you stand now, David?”

“Of course, my lord.” He jumped to his feet, ignoring the ache in his strained muscles—the evidence of his first battle.

Jonathan walked toward him, released his leather belt, and slipped his blue and purple robe from his back. He draped the robe over David’s shoulders and tied the belt around his waist. He walked to the side of the tent, grabbed his shield, sword, and bow, and set them at David’s feet. Finally Jonathan fell to his knees and touched his head to the floor three times.

David’s chest muscles tightened with emotion, and a lump formed in his throat. Jonathan’s robe covered his own legs and formed a pool of folded cloth at his feet, attesting to the prince’s stature. David fingered the soft fabric and touched the fine, jeweled leather belt. It was a taste of the future, a small glimpse of the finery that would surround him when he was king.

“I know you will sit on my father’s throne in my place, David,” Jonathan was saying. “I knew it the moment I met you, as surely as I’ve felt my own breath. Samuel’s anointing confirms what my heart has told me all along.” He drew in a long, slow breath. “But today . . . today you had a courage I have lost.” He looked beyond David to some point on the tent wall and let the silence hang between them. After a moment, he lifted clear eyes to David’s and gave a wistful sigh.

“Once, when the Lord was with my father, I had great faith, planning from my earliest youth to follow in his footsteps. But ever since that day when he willfully disobeyed the Lord’s command to destroy the people of Amalek, I knew I would never be king. And now I know the Lord has chosen you to take my place.”

David clasped Jonathan’s shoulder. “Do not bow to me, my lord. I would much prefer we be friends.” He studied Jonathan’s sober expression. Brotherly love was mirrored there, and the fire of friendship warmed David’s heart.

“Promise me, David, when you come to power, not to kill me or wipe out my family.”

David’s heart skipped a beat. Kings had absolute power. And the kings of the east showed little mercy to a dethroned monarch or defeated foe.

“When the time comes, you have my solemn promise,” David said. “But should the tables turn, promise me—will you do the same for me?”

“I stake my life on it, my friend.”

5

Michal stood at the flat wooden table in the palace kitchen, her hands pressed into the soft wheat dough, kneading and stretching it into a thin layer. Across the spacious room, Marta, the cook, stirred a sticky, honey-raisin mixture over the open flame on the stove, and other maidservants mixed dates with butter and cinnamon to be spread and rolled in leavened dough.

Michal rarely helped with domestic chores, but today the task was more than distraction, it was necessity. The honey cakes and raisin pastries would be among the succulent dishes laid out at the victory feast and subsequent betrothal ceremony. A betrothal she couldn’t bear to see come to pass.

How could this disaster have happened? Three days ago word had come from the battle. The war was finally over, and the giant slayer would be honored in a huge victory celebration. How was it possible that the giant slayer was David? He wasn’t even in the regular army.

With a violent jerk Michal ripped off a small section from the ball of dough and shoved the heel of her right hand into the grainy mass, making it slide to the center of the table and causing Michal to nearly lose her balance. The action made the elastic dough too thin, producing a gaping hole where a dollop of dates should go.

“Oh bother!” Michal snatched the dough from the table and punched it into a ball again. Merab couldn’t marry David. Not ever!

“Having trouble, little sister?” Merab’s haughty tone grated against Michal’s ears like fingernails on limestone.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Michal avoided eye contact, her gaze riveted to the ball of dough as she began pushing and stretching again.

Merab sauntered about the wide kitchen with an air of authority, then settled into a chair opposite Michal.

“Isn’t it exciting?”

Michal could feel Merab’s scrutinizing look and wished with all her might that the earth would suddenly swallow her sister whole.

“Isn’t what exciting?” Michal shoved the heel of her hand into the dough again, glanced up for a moment, then looked back to her work.

“The wedding, of course! What else would I be talking about?”

Michal smoothed the dough into a square and shrugged her shoulders, ignoring the annoyance in Merab’s tone.

“I told you they said David was valiant as well as talented. Can you imagine living with such a man? And he’s soooo handsome! I can’t believe he killed a giant of all things! Father promised me his best warrior. I just never expected to end up with one I like so well.”

Yes, but do you love him?
The thought made Michal’s jaw tighten as she studied the shape of the dough. Merab didn’t deserve a man like David. She couldn’t possibly know how to love a man of his caliber.

“Yes, well, the wedding hasn’t happened yet.” Michal reached for the date mixture to drop into the center of the dough.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Michal felt the searing heat of Merab’s gaze and lifted her head to look at her sister. “Exactly what it sounded like. How many times in the past year has Father promised to find you a husband, only to put it off again? I say don’t count on it happening until you’ve been to the marriage tent with David.”

The look of surprise on Merab’s face sent a shiver of satisfaction through Michal’s soul. If only her words were true. This time Father had a man picked out. It wasn’t likely he would go back on his public word.

Michal dragged the wooden spoon along the insides of the clay bowl and dropped the last of the date mixture onto the pastry dough.

“Are you jealous, Michal?” Merab leaned toward the table and narrowed her eyes at Michal. “You are jealous, aren’t you? You’d like nothing better than to see Father change his mind. You think you can marry before I do, is that it? Or is it David you want?” Her eyes widened to dark, round orbs. “Ah, I’ve touched a nerve. My, how red your cheeks grow when you’re found out, little sister.”

“I’m not jealous.” Michal glared at Merab. “And if you want David so much, you can have him! I just think you should worry that Father might not keep his word, that’s all.”

Merab sat back and tapped her forefingers together. “I think you’re lying, Michal. I think the person I should worry about is you.”

Michal forced herself not to look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m too young to marry—at least by Father’s definition. Besides, I’ve got my eye on someone else.” Merab studied one hennaed nail, then looked at her sister again. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

Michal hated to lie, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, give Merab the satisfaction of being right. God forgive her, but she must find a way to stop Merab’s betrothal to David.

Merab rose in one graceful motion and smoothed her red and yellow linen robe. She gave Michal one last penetrating look and turned to go, then apparently thought better of it and looked at her again.

“If I find out you’re lying or you do anything to stop this wedding, Michal, I’ll make sure Father gives you to your worst enemy as a wife. Don’t you forget it!”

An involuntary shudder swept up Michal’s spine as the steady slap of Merab’s sandals on the stone floor faded away. If she was going to stop the wedding, she’d better do it in such a way that Merab never discovered the part she played.

Michal sprinted up the steps to the roof and positioned herself between the twin towers, eyes on the winding road beyond Gibeah’s gates. Clouds of dust billowed beneath the feet of the returning army. Women and children craned their necks in the grasses lining the path. Ahead of the shouting men, young virgins, veils drawn over their faces, shook tambourines and danced, while others accompanied by flutes and lyres sang the victory song.