Queenmaker (38 page)
Authors: India Edghill
I knew better than to spread false coin before Joab; I was not his friend, nor he mine. I could only hope that when Joab looked at Adonijah, Joab remembered Absalom.
Solomon had his own supporters. Nathan, of course, and the high priest Zadok too. And Benaiah, the commander of the palace guard; perhaps that was why Joab would not yet smile upon Solomon.
An almost even match, the two princes, as the king’s life ebbed. Either might gain the crown, and we all waited and hoped.
All save Adonijah. Like his brother Absalom, he was overproud and impatient. He grabbed too soon for the crown.
And so in the end, Solomon had only to stretch out his hand and catch it as it fell.
After all the watching, and the waiting, and the scheming, the end rushed upon us oddly sudden, like a long-threatened summer storm. The end began when Abishag came to me where I sat with Bathsheba in the queen’s garden and told what Adonijah had done now. This time it was no mere matter of princely arrogance.
“Prince Adonijah gives a great banquet—he has asked all the princes, save only Prince Solomon. And he has said that his house will be open to all men as well, to feast as they will.” Abishag knelt at my feet and spoke quick and clear. “And he asked King David to come and feast with them and the king would not, but he laid his hands on the prince’s head and gave him his blessing. It is said that Prince Adonijah has asked Abiathar, and Joab, and all the other great men to this feast—but he has not asked Benaiah, nor yet Zadok, nor the prophet Nathan.”
As all men knew, Benaiah and Zadok and Nathan favored Solomon. Bathsheba gasped and would have spoken, but I waved her to silence. I drew a deep breath before speaking. “Has Abiathar said he will go?”
Abishag nodded. “Indeed, he is there now, and has with him the sacred oil. I had that from one who saw it with his own eyes—or so he swore, for what that is worth in the market.”
All the great men, and the princes, and Abiathar the high priest with the sacred oil—I knew what Adonijah must plan. Adonijah was risking all on one throw for the crown.
One more thing I must know. “And has Joab gone to this great feast as well?”
“Yes, O Queen. Joab sits beside Prince Adonijah even now.”
And is Joab’s sword drawn to strike?
I drew Abishag up and kissed her. “You have done well and more than well. Now go back, before the king knows you are gone and wonders where. And make haste.”
I drew Abishag up and kissed her. “You have done well and more than well. Now go back, before the king knows you are gone and wonders where. And make haste.”
Abishag pulled her veil close and fled away; she was soft and quick as a shadow in the sun. I sat there in the queen’s garden and looked at Bathsheba, whose eyes were wide.
“What does Adonijah mean by this?” She did not truly question; she too knew the answer.
“Adonijah means to be king,” I said. “And he means to be king
now.
That is why Abiathar went as high priest with the sacred oil—Adonijah must have convinced him to anoint a new king while King David still lives.”
now.
That is why Abiathar went as high priest with the sacred oil—Adonijah must have convinced him to anoint a new king while King David still lives.”
David himself was the precedent for such an action; nothing but grief could come of it. For an instant I forgot all else in anger at Adonijah, as if I were his mother rather than Solomon’s. “It is sheer folly; King David is all but dead—oh, why can none of his blood ever
wait?”
wait?”
Bathsheba clutched at my sleeve. “What are we to do? Adonijah king! Oh, Michal—what will he do to Solomon? You know what Adonijah is—”
“He will do nothing,” I said. “I love you dearly, but you are sillier than a day-old rabbit! Now stop weeping and let us think.”
Bathsheba dried her eyes as I bade her and looked at me hopefully. Bathsheba’s eyes were as sweet and trusting as they had been the day I first had seen her sitting lonely upon her housetop; I had kept her safe all the years since then. I would not fail her now.
And so I thought—hard and fast. A man’s weapons are sword and spear; a woman’s her wits. I had learned to use my thoughts as David once used his warriors.
Adonijah wished to be king, and would not wait. He had Abiathar the high priest for his shield and it seemed he had Joab the war-chief for his sword as well; he had the people too—or at least he had those whose eye could be caught by gold’s flash. But Adonijah did not have Benaiah, the captain of the king’s guard. He did not have Zadok, who was also high priest. He did not have the prophet Nathan, and Nathan still counted for much.
Nor was I as certain as Adonijah must now be of where Joab’s loyalty was given. So long as King David lived, I thought Joab would strike only at David’s bidding—and King David was not yet dead. So Adonijah might not yet own Joab’s sword.
And Adonijah did not have King David’s pledge. I knew that
as surely as I knew my heart beat. If Adonijah were King David’s choice, Adonijah would shout it from the housetops. There would be no need for hasty feasts and squandered gold.
as surely as I knew my heart beat. If Adonijah were King David’s choice, Adonijah would shout it from the housetops. There would be no need for hasty feasts and squandered gold.
“King David has not named Adonijah,” I said.
“He has not named Solomon either. Oh, Adonijah is Prince Absalom all over again!”
“Yes, and look at Prince Absalom now. He was a fool and Adonijah is the same. And so is David, to let his sons act so.”
“Oh, no—but—but he is—” Bathsheba was never one for flint-edged truths; now she wept, rather than utter them.
“King David is old,” I said flatly. “He is old, and his mind wanders—even he does not know anymore what he has said, and what he has not.”
“Yes,” said Bathsheba. “And once he was so beautiful, and he made such beautiful songs, Michal!” She bowed her head; tears slid down her cheeks like rain down a wall.
“Yes, and believed them, too—” And then I stopped, on a gasp of breath so sharp and hard that Bathsheba put an arm about me and stopped weeping.
“Michal? Are you all right? Do you have a pain?” She put her hand over my heart.
I shook my head. “No. No pain.” No pain, but instead a hard beat under my skin; triumph, hard and fierce, for I had the answer.
Many years ago David had told me that I must learn a king’s ways. And so I had. David himself had taught me with his sweet lying songs. I had learned his lesson. And at last I held the future in my own hands.
“Michal?”
I put my arms around Bathsheba. “I am a fool,” I said, and made myself laugh. “All this time and all this worry—when David himself swore Solomon would be king after him!”
Bathsheba stared, her eyes as round as full moons. “He did? But when? He never said so to me, or to Solomon—”
“But he did to me! Oh, it was long ago, when Solomon was
still sucking at your breast—David looked upon him and swore that Solomon would be king next, for the great love he bore you—and me. He had had a dream, David said, that the next king would—would be born twice, and have two mothers—and who else could that be but Solomon?” I spoke swiftly, clutching at Bathsheba’s plump hands. The future would be what I desired; I would shape it myself with words and deeds as David so often had.
still sucking at your breast—David looked upon him and swore that Solomon would be king next, for the great love he bore you—and me. He had had a dream, David said, that the next king would—would be born twice, and have two mothers—and who else could that be but Solomon?” I spoke swiftly, clutching at Bathsheba’s plump hands. The future would be what I desired; I would shape it myself with words and deeds as David so often had.
“King David said that? Truly?” Bathsheba’s cheeks were pink as summer roses; I told her what she wished to hear, and so she believed.
“Truly, he said that. And see—it has lain hidden in my mind all these years—now Yahweh has let me know it again.”
“But—why has not the king spoken?”
“He is old; he is tired. I will go and tell him what it is that Adonijah would do now. And I think that when King David hears that, he will remember what he once promised me.”
“Didst not thou, my lord, O King, swear unto thine handmaid … ?”
—I Kings 1:13
I left Bathsheba there in the queen’s garden and went to the king’s rooms, where David lay. Abishag was there before me, as if she had never left; she sat beside David and rubbed his cold hands with her warm young fingers.
“Go,” I said to Abishag. “Leave us.” And when she had slipped past me and away, I walked across the room and stood looking down at David.
“Abishag? Where are you—I am cold.” His voice quavered and wailed, winter-thin.
“Abishag is not here, David. I am Michal. You know me. I am your wife.”
“King Saul’s daughter.” His hand crept over the blankets, searching. “Jonathan’s sister.”
“David’s queen.” I watched his hand move, seeking the comfort of other flesh. His hand was as thin as his voice; the ring he wore, the king’s great seal-ring, weighed heavy against the bone.
“Michal.”
“Yes, Michal. I have come to tell you a tale, David.” As I thought of what I would tell him a fierce pleasure awoke, and I smiled. “It is only an old tale, oft told, but it made me laugh. Perhaps, when you have heard it, you too will laugh.”
He looked up at me, then. He was dying; his body old, his voice and his hands thin and frail. But he was not yet dead, for his
eyes still gleamed clear and cunning. King David still lived in his bright eyes.
eyes still gleamed clear and cunning. King David still lived in his bright eyes.
An ancient serpent stirred against my bones; for the first time in many years I thought of my nephew Meribaal’s eyes, and of my husband Phaltiel’s. I had never seen Bathsheba’s first husband; I had never seen Uriah’s eyes. I had only seen David’s on the day he had made me choose who should live and who die … .
“What tale?” David’s voice was weak; fretful. The voice of a helpless old man.
“An old tale,” I said again. “Your son Adonijah proclaims himself king, as his brother Absalom did before him. He gives a great feast, and the high priest Abiathar anoints him with the sacred oil.”
“He dares—”
“Of course he dares; why should he not? What will you do to stop him?”
“I have not said Adonijah will be king!” A flash of the old lion; weak, but fierce still.
“No,” I said. “You have said that Solomon will be king.”
David stared up at me. “No. Never have I said that.”
“Oh, but you have.” Deep beneath my heart the serpent woke from years-long sleep. “You have sworn it on your knees before Yahweh. You had a dream that the next king would be a twice-born son with two mothers—who else but Solomon? He was born dead; I saved him. Now do you remember?”
“No,” David said. “No.” He shook his head, and coughed. I waited until he was quiet once more.
“That is what happened, David.” The serpent shifted, coiled. “It is what happened because I say it did, and because no one can deny it.”
“I can. I am king! Tell such a tale, and I will rise from this bed to tell all the court that you are mad. Mad Saul’s daughter—” David struggled to raise himself up, but his body was too weak to obey him, and he could not rise even to his elbow. I smiled as he fell back, defeated by his own feeble body.
“Rise from your bed if you can,” I said. “Go and tell all the court if it pleases you, O great king. And I will follow behind, shaking my head sadly and saying that King David is too old, too ill, to know what it is he says. That King David is mad.”
He stared up at me, and something flickered behind his eyes. But he laughed, or tried to; truly he was very weak in body. “No one will believe you, Michal. You are only a woman, and I am the king.”
“The old king,” I said. “The ailing king. And I am Michal, the first lady of the palace, the queen of King David’s heart, the woman who loves David better than she loves life itself. All men know those things, for you yourself told them they were true. So when I, Michal the queen, say David the king is half-mad with age, men will believe me, David.”
Again he tried to rise up, to speak, but the effort made him choke and gasp for breath. All he could say was, “No—” and “I—king—”
I smiled down at him. “You see? You rave, David.” The serpent danced; my blood throbbed hot at my throat and the taste of power was sharp as cinnamon upon my tongue. Ah, yes, this time it was Michal who would be believed—and David who was watched with pitying eyes.
“No.” David lay very still, a rabbit before a serpent’s gaze. “You are wrong. My people love me—they have always loved me—they will not believe—” He paused and his eyes narrowed, canny; I saw a ghost of David the fox. “My Bathsheba will not believe—”
“Bathsheba?” I laughed, and saw him flinch. “Bathsheba loves me better than she does you, David—and that by your own fault. Once she loved you well; if she does not love you now, it is through your own folly.”
All David’s women had loved him, and he had tossed their love aside. Just as once, long ago, he had tossed aside mine, as if love were no more than a pretty toy that he might scoop up to play with again whenever he wished.
But women’s hearts are not trivial playthings, and it is never
wise to throw love away—if only because its warmth may be needed in the cold future.
wise to throw love away—if only because its warmth may be needed in the cold future.
“As for your other women—who will they wish to see king, David? Solomon, whom they know to be both kind and clever, or Adonijah, who will see threats behind every brother’s smile?” Now I shook my head, slowly, as if saddened by what I must next say. “No, David. If I speak against you, this time it is I who will be believed.”
“I am the king,” he said again. But his eyes shifted away from mine and I knew that I had won. Now, at last, I held in my grasp what I once had prayed for with every beat of my heart—power over David.
I smiled and shook my head again. “You are king, but I am queen. Your own well-loved queen, for whom you dared so much. All the world knows that truth—you remember your songs about us?”
“They were good songs, were they not?” David clutched at the golden past as if it could save him now. “Good songs. Men still sing them, Michal.”
“Oh, yes, they were good songs. And now I too know how to sing. You cannot leave your bed; all men know your mind wanders where it wills. When I go from your room with the king’s seal and the king’s blessing on Solomon, who will not believe whatever tale I choose to spin? Whatever tale I choose, David.”
The serpent within swayed to the hard slow beat of my heart. I bent low over David, to make sure he heard my words clear. “Do you remember a day when you took me from my husband Phaltiel—when you told me what I must learn, to be queen and happy both? Well, I have learned, King David. Harper David. Hero David.”
“Ah, have you come for your revenge? Have you come to kill me at last?” David’s voice quavered but his faded eyes gleamed with strange expectation. His hand reached up, shaking with the effort; his fingers closed bone-hard about my wrist. “Kill me, then,
but you will never be free of me. Never, Michal. I was everything to you. Everything. As I was to Saul, and to Jonathan … .”
but you will never be free of me. Never, Michal. I was everything to you. Everything. As I was to Saul, and to Jonathan … .”
And suddenly I understood. I knew this was truth at last. And at last Michal understood what Saul’s daughter, Phaltiel’s wife, David’s queen, never had. Oh, yes, David knew what lay behind my eyes—he always had. David did not care if it was all the world’s love or all the world’s hate, so long as all was his. So long as he and he alone was the lodestar of my existence.
Of all the world’s existence. Even Yahweh must love or hate David more than all the world. Nothing less.
And so never would David be content. Never would anything be enough. Never, though he lived a thousand years.
‘You see? Men like David will always make their own problems, little princess.
’
‘You see? Men like David will always make their own problems, little princess.
’
“Yes,” I said. “I see. I see everything now.” For I knew at last what I truly desired. And what I desired was not power, but freedom. Not to rule David as he had ruled me all these long years—but to be free of him.
A great stone seemed to roll away from my heart; a weight I had not known I carried lifted from my bones. For I looked at David’s face, and listened to David’s voice, and I felt neither love nor hate. There was only indifference, as if he were a stranger. I did not know when I had ceased to care or how long had it been since my hate was more than habit. I knew only that at last I saw clearly.
I saw that I was free and David chained, and he did not even know it. And I looked down into David’s bright triumphant eyes, and I laughed; laughed until I felt tears splash upon my cheeks. I touched my fingers to my wet cheeks and tried to remember how many tears I had shed because of David. A river of them, I supposed; they no longer seemed important.
“No, David,” I said, and I heard my voice kind to him—kind, but careless, as one speaks to a begging dog. Easy kindness to one for whom I cared nothing. “I have not come to kill you. Why should I? What are you to me that I should kill you?”
David stared up at me, his eyes narrow with a king’s anger. “You—you—” But he was too weak to strike; his body began to
shake, and for long breaths he was unable to force more words past his rage. At last he calmed, and said, “Do you think I loved you, Michal? You were never more to me than King Saul’s daughter.”
shake, and for long breaths he was unable to force more words past his rage. At last he calmed, and said, “Do you think I loved you, Michal? You were never more to me than King Saul’s daughter.”
“You do not understand, David.” I spoke patiently, without heat. “You are not important—hate me or love me, I do not care. The only thing I care for is that Solomon should be king. King
now
. King because I say he shall be.”
now
. King because I say he shall be.”
I looked down at David and I smiled at him for the last time. “Give me the king’s seal-ring, David.”
As I spoke I put my hand on David’s; his fingers closed over mine, as hard as the past we shared between us. He looked puzzled, like a small boy who does not know how he has erred.
And his eyes were bright no longer; they had clouded with years and memories, and with defeat. But still he tried to make his voice ring firm, as if he once more commanded warriors in the field. “Do you think you can take the king’s ring, Saul’s daughter?”
“Oh, David,” I said, “I already have. I am no longer yours; you lost me long ago.”
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