Joab knew. David felt the blood draining away from his face even as the heat had darkened it moments before. Joab not only knew, he was sending a message that he would hold it over David, for whatever his purposes.

  “Will that be all, my lord?”

  The question jolted him. “Yes, thank you.” David dismissed the man and leaned heavily against his gilded chair. He summoned Benaiah.

  “Yes, my lord, how may I help you?”

  David stiffened his back, looking over Benaiah’s broad shoulder. “See to it that Uriah’s widow has everything she needs to bury her husband.”

  Benaiah stood for a moment, and David looked at the man’s stoic expression, surprised to see he had not moved quickly to follow the command. Their gazes held for a space of a heartbeat until Benaiah looked away. “Will there be anything else? Since Uriah was one of the Thirty, will my lord the king attend his funeral?”

  The question brought him up short, his stomach tightening in an unexpected knot. Joab sent Uriah’s body back for burial for this very purpose, and for what else? To somehow expose David? But he could hardly ignore such an event, especially if he wanted to marry the man’s widow.

  His breath grew slower, shallow. He closed his eyes, then met Benaiah’s gaze. “Inform Ahithophel that I will attend.”

  “It will be as you say, my lord.” He backed away and then turned to do David’s bidding.

  Bathsheba wrapped both arms around herself, pulling her black cloak tight against her, but a chill settled deep within her despite the comfort of Aunt Talia’s arms. Her grandfather stood stoically beside her, and her father, who had accompanied Uriah’s body, kept company with a handful of warriors who had abandoned the battle to honor her husband.

  The king’s entourage took up a third of the valley near the burial cave whose wide mouth yawned before them, waiting to accept Uriah’s broken, lifeless body. The bier rested on the shoulders of four men as the sounds of weeping mingled with the flutist’s dirge, assaulting the oppressive air around her. Bathsheba’s tears were thin coatings over her cheeks, long dried by the summer breeze, the taste of salt still on her tongue.

  She glanced across the rocky expanse between where her family had gathered and the king stood silently in apparent grief. Her heart squeezed at the sight of him, knowing instinctively that Uriah was dead on their account. If she had never given herself to the king, would Uriah be alive to love her again? She choked on a sob at the thought and turned to gaze on the bier and Uriah’s wrapped body. She staggered forward, out of Aunt Talia’s embrace, and closed the short distance to the men holding the bier.

  They lowered it at her approach, and the flutist fell silent, the weeping softened as she placed a hand on the arm that had once held her close, now covered in white linen. She moved closer. His head and face were coated in the same strips of linen so that nothing remained for her to gaze upon. His body, once so strong, so masculine, was now prone, lifeless, his once ardent kisses no longer able to make her knees weak. The memories nearly paralyzed her, and she stumbled as she had that first time he had kissed her, had drawn the strength from her, left her breathless. She sank to the earth beside his sealed body, no longer able to keep back the convulsing sobs.

  Oh, Adonai, forgive me! Uriah, my husband, my love, what have I done to you? Where have you gone? I need you!

  Her knees folded beneath her robe and she rocked back and forth, the wails coming from her throat, deep and painful. She felt strong arms come around her, saw her father’s tearstained face through her blurred vision, heard Aunt Talia’s whispers against her wet cheek.

  “Come, Bathsheba. You can’t stay here.” Her father’s voice came to her like a gentle touch as he pulled her to her feet. She was unclean for having touched Uriah’s dead body, but her father’s arms around her told her he didn’t care. They would purify themselves later. For now, while her father remained unaware of the child in her womb, unaware of the shame she had caused him and of the part she had played in her husband’s death . . . for now, she was loved.

  She clung to the thought even as she rejected it, knowing how short-lived her reprieve. The men holding her husband’s bier lifted it again and carried it into the tomb.

  “We have lost a great man, a great warrior, today.” The king’s voice floated over the valley where Uriah’s tomb lay in the crevice of a hill. “Uriah was not one of us by birth, but he surely became an Israelite at heart. He obeyed the laws Moses handed down to us with utter devotion. Surely God has not abandoned his soul to the grave.”

  As the four men emerged from the tomb, they walked over to the heavy stone and heaved their weight against it, rolling it over the gaping mouth. Bathsheba’s knees gave way again, and she drew on her father’s strength to hold her up. She leaned into his chest, her vision clouded, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She could not look at David lest he read the confusion and see the fear in her heart. Even from this distance, he had to know how she felt about Uriah’s loss, how she wished she had never gone to him that night. Did David hate her for what had come between them? Had his lust become a thing despised? She had cost him one of his finest warriors, one of his trusted Thirty. Surely he blamed her. Women always bore such blame.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Bathsheba.” She startled at the familiar voice, turning abruptly, captured by the intense look in his eyes. He offered his hand, and she looked at it uncertainly, then slowly placed hers in his. He squeezed once and released his hold. “Your husband was a good man.” The king stepped back a pace, his expression somber. “He will be missed.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Her words, choked and throaty, pushed past her lips. She longed to search his gaze, to determine the intent behind his words, but he turned to her father, and she lowered her head appropriately, certain that any further communication between them would attract undue attention.

  “Eliam, I know you held Uriah in high regard. I want you to know that anything you need to help with his loss is yours.” The king’s voice caught as he spoke, and Bathsheba looked up again, reading a hint of respect in her father’s eyes.

  “Uriah had no brother to act as kinsman redeemer.” Her father’s comment made her breath catch. She had not thought he would consider the need to raise a child to her husband’s legacy. But to bring it up here, now . . . Was he offering her to the king?

  “When her week of mourning has ended, I will be her kinsman redeemer.” The king cleared his throat, then shifted to look at her. “If she will have me.” His words were soft, like a comforting balm. He had done this purposely to give her hope. And with the child already on the way, he could not wait long to act.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, choking on another sob. She longed to fling herself into David’s arms, but her father tightened his grip on her and she turned into his shoulder instead, weeping. The king had worked everything out, and they would be all right. She and her unborn child would not die beneath a pile of rocks, buried shamefully. Unlike the husband who did not deserve to die so young, who would never know what honor she had cost him.

  The pains came on suddenly, and Bathsheba couldn’t stifle the cry that escaped with the first onslaught. She doubled over beside the bed in the chambers David had designed for her, sweat drawing a thick line across her brow.

  “The midwife is coming, my lady. Here, let me help you.” Tirzah, ever faithful since the day David had taken Bathsheba to his house as his wife seven months before, placed a strong arm along her back at her distended waist and helped her to stand.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You will be more comfortable on the cushions.”

  Bathsheba panted as she let Tirzah lead her, but sitting did nothing to ease the ache in her back. She pushed up with Tirzah’s help and walked the length of the sitting room. Her living quarters in the palace were large, with a bedchamber that held a bed big enough for two, a table to take her morning meal, another table with all of her cosmetics, chests full of elegant robes and tunics etched with gold thread, and boxes overflowing with jewels and perfumes—costly gifts from the king. Gifts of penance, she knew, sensing the guilt in him, the guilt that throbbed between them every time his gaze met hers, every time he entered these chambers.

  Though she had been his wife since the week after Uriah’s burial, her new status as wife of the king had done nothing to assuage the intense loss she still felt. The weight David carried seemed to grow heavier, palpable, until the man who had wooed her seemed to disappear with the morning mist. Yet outwardly he presented a man in control, a king to be obeyed—and sometimes, when his temper snapped, to be feared. Her grandfather looked at David with questioning eyes, his weathered face lined with concern . . . and confusion.

  Ahithophel had looked to her for explanation, but with each passing day, the weight David carried became her own, matching the child’s bulk as it grew within her. Would this birth relieve them both of the shame, of the guilt, they harbored in secret?

  She moved from the sitting room to the gardens adjacent to the king’s. Her placement in the palace compound had done nothing to endear her to the king’s other wives, her privilege evoking bitter controversy for David not only from his wives, but from the tribes they represented as well. The stress of it all had deepened the grooves on his brow and made him moody and temperamental. And she blamed herself for all of it.

  She turned from the gardens and walked back into the sitting room when another crippling pain seized her, and she fell to her knees, unable to bear it. Perhaps she would die in the birth and free David from the burden she had caused him. If only she had not bathed alone that night in the courtyard or played the music that first drew him to watch. She closed her eyes, putting the cloth Tirzah offered between her teeth to keep her cries from carrying throughout the palace.

  “Please!” Her tears came as the midwife bustled into the room with Aunt Talia and Chava close behind. “Help me!” She heard her own helpless whimper and could do nothing to stop herself.

  “There now, your time has come so soon! The babe must be anxious to make his way into the world.” Aunt Talia coaxed her to the couch, where the midwife examined her.

  “She is farther along in labor than I would have thought possible. This child will come before the night is through.” The midwife lowered Bathsheba’s tunic and bid her rest as she suffered the next spasms.

  “Will the child live?” Chava whispered, but Bathsheba clearly heard the words. “She can only be six or seven months along. Perhaps we should make her herbs to stop the pains.”

  “The child will not be stopped now.” The midwife shook her head, and Bathsheba closed her eyes, pretending the pain in her middle was the only reason she had for writhing and groaning. “She’s too far along.”

  When the babe was born, his size would silence Chava’s questions. Unless, by some miracle, the child was smaller than normal. But Bathsheba could not bring herself to ask Adonai for such a favor. It was only by His grace she wasn’t already buried beneath a mound of rocks for her sins.

  A gush of liquid between her legs jolted her thoughts. “He’s coming!” She panted against the pain as the women guided her to the birthing stool. Aunt Talia’s strong hands rested on her shoulders while Chava clasped her hand. Tirzah hurried about doing whatever the midwife asked.

  Agony, knife-like and sharp, bit down on her.

  “Push, Bathsheba. I see the head.” The midwife’s calm voice coaxed her. “Again. Not too fast now. The head is coming. Again. Now!”

  “Ahh!” With a shout and a massive push, she felt the child release its grip on her insides and burst into the light, the instant cry pitiful at first, then lusty and strong. So like its father.

  “It’s a boy. A son to carry on Uriah’s name.” Chava carried the swaddled infant to her to suckle, and a little cry of delight escaped Bathsheba’s lips as the babe latched onto her breast. The pull of his tiny mouth drew such love from her being. How perfect, how precious he was! She traced a finger along the soft fringe of his dark hair and felt the downy smoothness of his skin. When she reached his hand, his tiny fingers drew a fist around her thumb. She laughed at the sight.

  “Did you see?” She glanced at Chava, catching a look of uncertainty on her cousin’s face.

  “My son did the same thing when he would suckle.” She smiled, but Bathsheba’s middle tightened at the expression on Chava’s face.

  Bathsheba looked back at her son, not wanting to see the question in Chava’s eyes, but unable to keep from examining the size of her son. She compared him in her mind’s eye to Chava’s son at his nine-month birth. The boys were nothing alike in their features, but their sizes were similar.

  Chava knew.

  “What will you name him?”

  The right answer would be to name him Uriah. But to do so would be a living, constant reminder of all she and David longed to forget.

  “I don’t know yet. I will have to ask his father.” Bathsheba closed her eyes, feigning sleep, not wanting to endure the silent questions, the curious looks of her cousin and aunt, or the more obvious knowing look of the midwife. She held the child close, kissing his forehead, drinking in the new scent of him, thrilling to the feel of his small, suckling mouth.

  She would protect him from those who would ask such questions. She would keep him close to her and never let the world know the truth of his conception. She would let the world think he had inherited Uriah’s lands and carried on his heritage. She would raise him to hold his head up, to not let the gossipers in the palace speak ill of him as she sensed they had of her. The whisperers even now could be heard through the cedar-lined halls, buzzing with jealousy and looking for a way to bring down the king.

  She would not let that happen. She clutched her son’s body closer as the room cleared of all but Tirzah. She waited, hoping David would come to see the child she had borne him, the child of their passion.

  But as the night deepened and the child slept beside her, her tears and Tirzah were her only companions. The king, wherever he was, had left her to rejoice and weep alone.

  26

  David rose before dawn and entered his private gardens, looking for some sort of respite from the tormenting dreams. He could not remember the last time he’d slept in peace or when the visions of the night had brought gladness. He raised his gaze heavenward, exhaustion and anger bubbling equally within him.

  How long will You torment me?

  He should have gone to Bathsheba last night after the babe had come. But he couldn’t bring himself to look upon the child. Not then. His excuses were foolish. He owed it to her to comfort her, to bless the child on his knee. But the tradition seemed false, though no one would fault him. Eliam or Ahithophel should be the ones to claim the child for Uriah. Uriah, whose blood he had spilled to have the woman he could not even bring himself to visit.

  How pathetic a man he was! The realization only added to his anger, this time at himself. He moved his gaze from the heavens to the hewn limestone beneath his sandaled feet. He would go to her, force himself to acknowledge the child, and somehow reassure her that life would be normal now. In time, the court gossips would forget the child’s “early” birth, and Bathsheba would take her place as one of his many wives. He would do his best to love her, though he knew it was his guilt that drove him. She would not be here if not for him.

  He moved through the gardens to the door adjoining hers, opened it slowly, and walked among the almond trees to the door of her apartment. The sound of soft singing made him pause and listen to the sweet beauty of her voice. All anger seeped from him, and when he entered the apartment without knocking, his gaze captured hers where she sat in her sitting room, the babe nursing in her arms. Her smile drove all confusion and frustration from his heart. In two strides he stood over her, looking down on their son.

  “I should have come sooner.” He bent low to pull the soft linen from the babe’s dark hair, careful not to touch her during her uncleanness.

  “I’m glad you’re here now.” Her smile again took his breath. How beautiful she was, even hours after giving birth! Not fragile like Abigail had been, or disheveled as Maacah or Ahinoam or most of his other wives. “Do you want to hold your son?” Her voice, soft like a caress, drew him to her, to accept the child into his arms.

  “He’s beautiful, like his mother.” He gazed into the baby’s liquid eyes and kissed his downy head. “What will you name him?”

  “I was hoping you would help me decide.” Her dark eyes were luminous, and for a brief moment a flicker of sadness swept through them.

  David shifted the babe against his chest, but when he rooted, looking for milk, he chuckled and handed him back to his mother. “It is not me he wants.” He longed to touch her, to pull her close and restore what he had once had with her so briefly that first night. “We have until the eighth day to name him. There is no rush.”

  Neither of them wanted to name the child Uriah. He could sense it in her look, in the melancholy that passed between them. “Perhaps Eliam, after my father.” She spoke with a certain resignation, and he sensed that pleasing her father was not as important to her as pleasing him.

  “Eliam is a good name. Easier to say than Ahithophel.”

  She laughed and he joined her, the music of the sound lifting his soul. “Don’t let my grandfather hear you say that.”

  “I won’t.” Their gazes met and held, the silence between them bittersweet, and for the first time in many months he felt a stirring in his heart, a yearning for something more in a wife—something even more than he’d known with Michal in the early years or Abigail more recently. Could Bathsheba give it to him?

  “If I do not think of a better name by the time of his circumcision, we will call him after my father. It will please him.” Her wistful look told him her father was not one she had easily pleased in the past. David vowed that he would never be so difficult to please in her future.

  “I will give the name some thought as well.” He bent closer and lowered his hand to her hair, but thought better of it and pulled back, not wanting to break yet another law and add to his guilt. “Thank you for my son,” he whispered, knowing in that moment that he was more grateful for this child than any who had gone before, because of what his mother had gone through to bring him forth. “I will raise him up to sit at my right hand. I will always protect you and him, no matter what.” The promise grew in strength as he spoke the words, and he knew the future would prove how hard such a promise would be to keep. But he could not, would not, let court gossip ruin his son’s future or damage this woman, who was ever so slowly twining herself around the fabric of his heart.

 

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