Bathsheba, p.21
Bathsheba, page 21
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.
“If she needs anything, send word.” He nodded in Tamar’s direction, then walked swiftly toward the door leading to the hall and out of Maacah’s stifling apartment.
31
David took the steps up two stories, passed between two Cherethite guards, and entered his rooftop pavilion, where his wife Bathsheba and son Solomon awaited his coming. The summer heat was nearly upon them, and the tent flaps that were lifted to expose the sides afforded more comfort than the rooms below.
She was seated among the cushions, Solomon playing with blocks on the floor at her feet. She smiled, attempting to rise as he entered, but he stayed her with his hand.
“Don’t get up, beloved.” He moved to sit beside her as servants lifted palm fronds to move the still air away from them, while another handed them goblets of spiced wine. “How are you feeling?”
She took his hand and squeezed, a comforting gesture she often made, one he had grown to expect. “I am well.” She shifted slightly, lifting the bulk of the child within. “He is active today. A healthy, strong boy.”
He laughed and placed a hand on her extended middle. He was rewarded with soft blips of movement. “His kicks are strong. Surely you should lie down and rest.”
She gave him a look that sent his heart beating faster. “I am resting here. There is no better place than at your side.”
He squeezed her hand in response, suddenly not sure he trusted his voice. When had love become so familiar? He was used to casual closeness, even consistent caring, first with Michal, then Abigail. Surely he had loved them. But this feeling he had in Bathsheba’s presence did not leave when he walked away. She crept into his thoughts, making him long for her, to sneak away to spend a moment with her even when he couldn’t, when more pressing things demanded his attention.
“I love you, Bathsheba.” He spoke so softly he wasn’t sure she had heard him. Solomon pulled himself up off the soft rug and crawled onto David’s lap.
Bathsheba leaned in to kiss David’s cheek. “I know,” she whispered, her eyes alight with affection. “And I you.”
He turned to her and smiled, a look of acceptance, of deep understanding, passing between them. Stomping footsteps drew their attention.
“Father.” A commotion showed a guard blocking a man’s way. “Let me pass. I would speak a word with my father.”
“The king wishes not to be disturbed. You can place your request with him another time.”
“I will speak with him now!”
David leaned close to Bathsheba’s ear. “Absalom.”
She nodded, dipping her head toward the tent’s opening. “Will you not see what he wants?”
He could tell by the sudden tensing of her jaw that she did not wish Absalom’s presence near her son, and David did not blame her. Since Tamar’s ruin, David trusted few of his own sons, and had doubled the guards around Bathsheba’s quarters. The sword will never depart from your house. The prophecy haunted him at night, and he begged Adonai continually to keep the sword from Bathsheba and her children.
“I will return.” He kissed Solomon’s soft curls, then placed him on the floor again. Slowly rising, he brushed the wrinkles from his robe and walked to the tent’s opening and addressed the guards. “It’s all right. I will speak with him.”
He stepped forward and walked with Absalom to the perimeter of the roof. “How does it fare with you, my son?”
“I have sheepshearers at Baal Hazor.” Absalom paused, turning to David with his back against the parapet. “I would like you to come, Father. Will you and your officials please join me?”
David looked beyond Absalom to the Mount of Olives in the distance. He could not leave Bathsheba so close to her time, and the trip would be impossible for her right now, though Absalom need not know his thinking.
“No, my son.” He met Absalom’s gaze, then turned to walk the perimeter of the roof again. “We should not all go with you lest we be a burden to you.”
“You would not be a burden at all, Father.” Absalom doubled his steps to keep up with David’s long strides. “My servants are fully prepared to provide for your retinue. You will find me a capable host if you will let me show you.”
David stopped to watch the goings-on of the city below him. “I am sure you are a capable host, my son. But the distance is far and will be too much for the children.” He glanced at Absalom, catching the slight clenching of his jaw, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek. But his son’s eyes were impassive, revealing nothing.
“The children could stay behind. Leave them with their nurses.” Absalom’s tone grew insistent, though his gaze remained dispassionate.
David placed a hand on Absalom’s shoulder. “I appreciate your desire to include us, but it is impossible this time. May Adonai’s blessing rest upon you and your men.” David leaned in and kissed Absalom on each cheek. He smiled and patted Absalom’s shoulder, then turned to walk back toward the pavilion.
Absalom drew next to him. “Father, wait.” He reached out a hand but did not touch David.
David turned back. He told himself to appreciate this moment, as time alone with any of his children was far too infrequent.
“If you will not go with us, let Amnon come.” The impassive look had left Absalom’s gaze, replaced by one of urgent longing.
Prickles of concern dotted David’s skin. “Why should he go with you?” Amnon was better off far away from Absalom.
“He should come as your representative, my lord. If you will not join me, then please show me your true blessing by allowing your sons to accompany me. Must I celebrate the abundance of Adonai’s favor with only my servants at hand? Let my brothers join the feast and share in the bounty of the Lord your God.” Absalom clasped his hands and held them out in a gesture of goodwill. Heavy locks of his dark hair hung below his shoulders, and his handsome features reminded David of the little boy who often pleaded with him to get his way. David had rarely denied the child and now found himself weakening, unable to deny the man who had replaced the boy.
“You have not exactly been on good terms with your brother. How can I know that there are no ill feelings between you?” David studied Absalom, searching his gaze for some hint of animosity, of ulterior motive behind the request. He had not protected Tamar from Amnon, and he could not fail again to protect Amnon from those who would seek his harm. But after two years, surely the danger of revenge had past.
“If I had wanted to harm my brother, would I not already have done so? Please, my lord, do not deny your servant his request.” His open, earnest gaze held no apparent guile, and David felt a twinge of guilt that he had fairly accused his son of plotting repercussions.
“They may go with you,” he said at last, touching Absalom’s arm once more.
Absalom fell to his knees and kissed the roof’s floor at David’s feet. “Thank you, my lord. May the king find favor in the eyes of Adonai.”
The Hall of Parchments, one of David’s favorite rooms in the palace, held the familiar scents of leather, ink, clay, and papyrus. It was easy to lose himself here, to let his worship of Adonai spill over from the feathered quill in his hand to the flattened parchment beneath his fingertips. The dimensions of the temple his son would one day build to Yahweh grew in depth and detail as the Spirit of Adonai came over him, filling his mind with descriptions and measurements. A thrill rushed through him as he anticipated what this new day would bring.
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and sat at a table. His calloused fingers brushed the words and symbols he’d written the day before. Sinking into his seat, he spread his hands, palms open on the table, his gaze lifted heavenward, his eyes closed.
Adonai Elohai, Adonai Echad. O Lord my God, You are One. Grant Your servant ears to hear Your word and a willing spirit to sustain me.
He fingered the quill, ready to pen the words to a new song that had formed in his mind during the night.
For the director of music. A psalm of David. A song.
Praise awaits You, O God, in Zion;
to You our vows will be fulfilled.
O You who hear prayer,
to You all men will come.
When we were overwhelmed by sins,
You forgave our transgressions . . .
An urgent knock on the door stopped his hand. A guard opened it and a messenger hurried in, falling prostrate near the table at his side.
“My lord king, a messenger has arrived from Absalom!” The man’s breath came in spurts as though he’d run a distance.
David dropped the pen and stood, his mind whirling, processing. “Tell me what happened.” He moved toward the door as the man scrambled to his feet.
“I do not know, my lord. But I fear . . . it is urgent.”
David glanced at the man, read the fear in his eyes, and quickened his pace to the audience hall. The guard knew more than he let on, but David quashed his irritation, pausing only long enough for the flag bearers and trumpet players to announce his arrival. He slowed his pace, fighting an impending sense of dread, then ascended the steps and took his seat on his throne.
