Bathsheba (5 page)

“Don’t go, Abigail. Your children need you. The king needs you.”

David shoved the door open and strode forward. Servants hovered nearby, and the palace physician stood, using a pestle to mix herbs in a small clay bowl. The man poured the concoction into a silver cup, and the midwife lifted Abigail’s head to help her drink. Michal sat in a corner, holding a newborn infant in her arms.

“My lord,” the physician said softly, then backed away, allowing David the space at Abigail’s side.

But he didn’t want an audience. He wanted time alone with his favored wife. Time to hold her, to coax her to live. “Is there anything more to be done for her?” he asked the physician. At the man’s shake of his head, David glanced at Benaiah. “Clear the room.”

His command was met with soft gasps coming from several of the women. This was not what they expected, but the servants hurried to obey him.

Michal rose slowly from her seat, carrying Abigail’s child. She paused near him as though expecting him to say something, to acknowledge her somehow, but he could not bring himself to speak to her. Not while Abigail seemed to be nearing her last breath.

Ignoring her, he glanced at Benaiah, who moved to escort Michal from the room. The guard stepped outside the door to prevent anyone else from entering and interrupting.

Relieved to at last be alone with Abigail, David stepped forward and knelt at her side, taking her limp hand in his, his heart thudding slow and thick as though he were dying with her. He drew a breath. Another. Swallowed hard against the grit in his throat.

“Abigail. Beloved. Don’t leave me. I need you.” He bent close to her ear and kissed her damp cheek, then fingered the sweat-soaked tendrils of her hair. “Oh, beloved . . . please.”

She stirred, her eyes flickering open, their dark hues now glazed, feverish. But a soft smile lifted the edges of her cracked, dry mouth. “David.” She whispered his name like a caress, making his heart constrict further. “You have another daughter, my lord.” She closed her eyes as she spoke, and he sensed the effort to speak had cost her dearly. Her breathing came in slow, uneven paces.

“I’m sure our daughter is beautiful, beloved. Like her mother.” He drew in a ragged breath, fighting the urge to break down and weep. He stroked her hand instead, kissing each finger. He placed a hand on her brow, her cheeks, then reached for a cloth and dipped it into a bowl of water. He wrung it out and placed it over her forehead, each movement careful, accompanied by silent, pleading prayers.

Please, Adonai, don’t take my Abigail.

“Do you remember when I promised not to take more wives, and the night I said I wished I’d married only you?” When she didn’t respond, he hurried on, needing to speak whether she could hear him or not. “I meant what I said, beloved. But our life together isn’t over. Our daughter needs you to raise her to be a woman who loves Yahweh like you do. As you’ve taught Anna and Chileab to do . . .” He choked on a sob. “I can’t do this without you.”

His throat grew dense with unshed tears, and he closed his eyes, willing himself some semblance of control.
Please, Adonai, please let her live. I need her.

“Abigail . . . what can I do? How can I help you grow strong again?” He swallowed, tasting bile. Absently, then purposely, he caressed her cheek. “Chileab has grown into a fine son, not nearly as spoiled or self-centered as his brothers. It is because of you, beloved. You alone.”

Her eyes flickered at his soft pleading, her brow furrowed, as though something troubled her. She looked at him again. This time the glazed look had cleared. “Michal will teach our daughters, my lord. Michal loves Yahweh too.” She drew a shallow breath, wincing at some pain David could not see.

“You’re hurting. Let me call the physician back in.” He stroked her face again with gentle fingers, tears falling unbidden, dampening his cheeks.

She smiled, a look of peace settling over her, making his gut clench in fear.

“Abigail?”

But her only response was to hold his gaze with a look of love so strong he thought the strength of it would rip his heart in two. And then she was gone. Her eyes glazed over in the unmistakable mask of death.

Grief ripped through him with the force of a mighty wind. Groans burst from his throat, and a high-pitched wail escaped his lips, piercing the silence. The door opened, and the guards and servants he had previously banished flooded the apartment. Keening sounds came from the women, matching his bitter cry.

Abigail! Oh, Adonai, why did You take her? Why now? I need her!

But he knew the questions would go unanswered, the reasons for death as varied as the reasons for life. He studied her now, every line of her face peaceful, carefree—a feeling she’d often longed for. One he could never fully give her.

His fingers closed over hers, but he recoiled at the lifelessness of her once busy hands. Never again would she stitch tunics and robes for him or for their children. She’d gained such pleasure from the task.

The women moved about him like bees, buzzing, wailing, gathering spices and water to prepare Abigail’s body for the grave. He would bury her in his own royal tomb already set aside and waiting for him in the city, not in some cave too far for him to notice or visit.

He could not bring her back, that was certain. But he could honor the love they’d shared. He pressed his hand one last time to her cool, colorless cheek, then stood and turned to leave.

Michal met him as he reached the door. “Forgive me, my lord, I am very sorry for your loss. But before you leave, would you like to see Abigail’s daughter?”

David stared at Michal, seeing the tears shimmering in her eyes, the sleeping bundle in her arms, noting the protective way she held the child to her barren breast.
Michal will teach our daughters, my lord. Michal loves Yahweh too.
Since Michal had made her peace with David and with Adonai, Abigail had come to appreciate her rival, befriending her when his other wives continued to disdain her. Something David had often found both unusual and amazing, given Abigail’s previous struggle with jealousy.

Abigail would want Michal to raise the child for him, though any number of lesser wives or concubines could do the job with more energy. Michal was starting to show her age in the lines across her forehead and mouth, no longer the beautiful young love of his youth. She had often begged him to give her a child, but still her arms were empty, her womb barren. Another way in which he had failed to please a wife he once loved. To give her Abigail’s child . . . it was the least he could do.

Not trusting his voice, he nodded at Michal. She undid the child’s wrapping to reveal a round face with creamy tan skin and eyes that were dark, like her mother’s. He blinked hard, then looked again at his daughter, Abigail’s daughter.

“She will be like her mother,” he said finally.

He touched a finger to the child’s cheek, but he did not ask to hold her. He should take her and bless her as he had done for Anna, despite the fact that she wasn’t a boy. But the grief of Abigail’s loss was too raw, and he suddenly needed to get away, to find solitude and peace.

He looked into Michal’s expectant gaze and offered her what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Will you raise her for me?” At her look of complete surprise, he added, “Abigail would want you to. You shared a love for Adonai and—” His voice caught. “Will you?”

“Yes, my lord. I would be honored.” He started to move away from her toward the door, but her words stopped him. “What will you name her, my lord?”

He paused, uncertain, then looked into Michal’s tender gaze. “Abigail. After her mother.” He whirled about and walked away to grieve in peace.

4

Bathsheba tore off an end of the brown wheat bread and dipped it into the stew, scooping a chunk of lamb and red lentils onto the small piece. Uriah had already eaten and retired to the sitting room to go over the day’s accounting with Anittas. Sometimes he would share a meal with her, but his preparations for battle had him hurried and preoccupied.

She chewed slowly, forcing the food down despite her lack of appetite, dreading his leaving but half wishing he had already gone. Would it hurt him to slow down a bit, to give her an extra measure of his time? But he had already spent the morning rushing her through the market and now doubled his efforts to make up for the loss. There was much to do in advance, though the servants managed to keep things well under control during his absences.

She took a few more bites of the stew. Unable to finish, she nodded to a servant to remove the dishes. She lingered a moment in the eating area, fluffing a pillow at the end of the couch, glancing down at the leather case holding her lyre. Not even the thought of her music cheered her with war so imminent. Later, perhaps. She stood and moved about the room, straightening the cushions and lighting lamps. Dusk cast its gray light over the orange, yellow, and blue wall hangings, and the sounds of servants’ laughter drifted to her from the cooking rooms, where the women ate now that she and Uriah had taken their fill. A sense of deep loneliness crept over her at the sound. She should have joined them. At the very least she should have asked Tirzah to sit with her.

A loud blast of the trumpet nearly made her drop the small torch. Another blast jolted her. She blew out the torch, grabbed a clay lamp, and rushed to the sitting room. A loud banging on the front door accompanied the third blast. Uriah jumped up and hurried to the door.

“Master Uriah, you are commanded to appear in the courtyard of the palace at once to accompany the king to his tomb to bury his wife Abigail.”

Bathsheba stood behind Uriah, noting the royal insignia—the lion of the tribe of Judah—emblazoned on the cloaks of two royal guards. Their words rocked her. Abigail was dead? How could that be?

“When did this happen?” Uriah addressed the men as he snatched his sandals from the basket by the door. He bent to tie them as Anittas handed him his soldier’s tunic.

“This afternoon. The lady Abigail died giving birth to a daughter. The women have prepared her body for burial, and the king wishes to bury his wife in his own tomb. The Thirty are commanded to attend.” The guards whirled about and marched out of the courtyard.

Uriah pulled the tunic over his head and fastened his captain’s robe over it, tying the belt securely. Anittas retrieved Uriah’s helmet and handed it to him.

“May I come, my lord?” Bathsheba asked. Other women would accompany the throng, professional mourners among them.

He turned and met her gaze, his dark brows drawn low beneath the leather headgear. He looked as though he would deny her request, then seemed to think better of it and nodded. “Bring your maid with you.” He looked at Anittas. “You may accompany them.” He bent to kiss her cheek, then marched through the door.

Darkness settled swiftly over the city as Bathsheba donned her sandals and grabbed her cloak. Anittas led, and Tirzah followed Bathsheba through the courtyard into Jerusalem’s narrow streets. High-pitched wailing sounds came from the direction of the palace, growing louder as they drew near. Bathsheba kept close to Anittas amidst the crowds. Torches lit the night as they maneuvered their way to the palace steps.

Inside the king’s gate, the thirty mighty men stood in precise rows at the head of the procession. She spotted Uriah and her father, Eliam, toward the back of the group. Behind them, six slaves lifted the bier, holding the lifeless body of the king’s favorite wife. Bathsheba stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better glimpse, but even with the many torches she could see little. Directly behind the bier, surrounded by guards, courtiers, flag bearers, and trumpeters, stood the king himself.