Queenmaker (39 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Queenmaker
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“ … thy love to me was wonderful … .
”
—II Samuel 1:26
 
When I went from King David’s rooms I found Solomon waiting for me in the hall beyond. He was calm as always, even now, when all hung uneasy in the balance.
“Does my father know what Adonijah would do? Is Adonijah his choice?”
“He knows.” I smiled and held out my hand flat; the king’s great seal-ring lay coiled there. “This is his choice, Solomon. Use it wisely.”
Solomon held out his hand and smiled at me; I slid the seal-ring onto his finger. The place beneath my heart was now warm with life, with love; never again could a poison serpent sleep there, cold and waiting.
Solomon stared at the ring for a moment. “The king does me great honor; I will try to be worthy.”
“Yes, of course—but you need not say such things to me. Save them for those who do not know you as I do, my heart.”
“Yes, I must move quickly now.” Solomon smiled at me. “Did my father have any words of wisdom for me? Did he say, ‘tell Solomon to show this ring to Benaiah and to Nathan’?”
“He did.”
“And did he say that I should ride the king’s own white mule to the marketplace, so that Nathan might pour the holy oil upon my head for all men to see?”
“Those were his very words,” I said.
“I thought they were what he would say. I know they are what you would say, Mother, in his place.” Solomon smiled at me, his eyes clear as sunlit pools. “Now I must do as my father bid me if I am to be king by sunset.”
I held him only long enough to kiss his cheek. “Go with my love and blessing—and your father’s.”
Then I watched him stride away from me. Had David ever been so tall and straight and beautiful? I had thought so once, but long years stretched between then and now.
Long ago was gone. Now was Solomon.
“King Solomon,” I said. I looked back, once, at the door to the room where King David lay, and smiled. And then I went to tell Bathsheba that our boy was truly king.
 
 
All went as smoothly as one of David’s own songs, after that. As King David had decreed, Prince Solomon became King Solomon that day, to reign beside his father as equal.
Adonijah’s friends proved as false as their master, and fled his side when they heard the trumpets and the shouting for Solomon. I later heard that Joab watched all this and only sat and drank his wine; Adonijah had wooed in vain.
Adonijah fled as well—to the nearest altar, to cling to its horns in hope of sanctuary there. He feared for his life, as well he might. Another than Solomon would have slain him out of hand.
But Solomon was always a man of peace, and so he had his brother brought from the altar to stand before him. Adonijah thought himself dead, then, until Solomon smiled and bade him rise.
“Our father has made his choice, and Yahweh has confirmed it,” Solomon told Adonijah. “No, do not fear me, for I bear you no ill will. Kiss me, brother, and go live quiet in your own house, and we will stay friends, as we have been.”
And so Adonijah kissed his brother and went away, and was
glad to do so. I thought there might be more trouble later, for there was bad blood in that line of David’s sons. But now there was peace in the land once more—and Solomon was king at last.
The true king, for King David was all but dead. The crown, and the future, belonged to King Solomon.
And when I was summoned to the great court and saw the son of my heart seated upon the gilded throne, I knew this was worth even the pain I had once endured. The pain, too, was long ago.
Now I saw Solomon as the great king he was meant to be—and because I was a woman, I saw him as the father of children who would climb upon my lap, and call me ‘grandmother’ as if I were their own. And I would tell them tales of how it had been long ago, when I was young. How it had been when Saul was king, and David only a shepherd with a gift for song, and the great King Solomon not yet born.
But that was for tomorrow. Today I knelt before King Solomon in all his glory, and my heart was so full it ached. And Solomon rose, and came down to me, and lifted me to my feet.
“Never kneel to me, Queen Michal, any more than my mother does. I would have all men see in what honor King Solomon holds you.” And he kissed me before all the court.
I kissed Solomon’s hands, as subject, and his mouth, as mother. And I wept for pure joy, and the salt tears were sweet as love upon my lips.
 
 
Adonijah went into his house, not to live in peace and give thanks for doing so, but to plot against both kings, the old and the new. Less than a month had passed when he asked Solomon for Abishag when King David should no longer need her. And he was fool enough to do so in open court, before us all.
Adonijah might as well have asked for the crown outright as for one of King David’s women. So all men knew, and so Solomon told him; being Solomon, the words of reproof were quiet, measured
things. Being Solomon, he might even have pardoned Adonijah again. Adonijah was his brother, after all.
But Adonijah could not bow his head and leave well alone. He argued against Solomon; accused Solomon of plotting against him and against King David; accused Abishag of harlotry.
“Stop, brother. Do not let anger speak for you.” So Solomon warned him; Solomon did not want his brother’s blood on his hands.
But Adonijah would not stop; next he began accusing Bathsheba, and me—I do not know of what, for Adonijah did not live to finish his slanders. For Joab sprang forward and struck Adonijah down before Solomon’s throne. To the end of his days Joab had a taste for murder in the king’s name.
No one was surprised, save perhaps Adonijah himself. Certainly no one blamed Solomon—save Solomon.
“He was too quick to strike,” he told me after. “I should have foreseen it—I know what Joab is. There was another way.”
Perhaps there had been, but I would not say so—no, not even if I must swear Joab had done right, for I could not bear to see Solomon’s eyes so troubled. I took his hand and laid it against my cheek. “No, Solomon; there was no other way.”
“Adonijah was my brother; I should have treated him more gently.”
“Did he treat you gently? No, my heart—and it was better quickly done. If Adonijah had risen up against you, many men would have been killed—many women left husbandless, and many children fatherless. It was cruel, yes—but kinder than what would have come after, had he been spared.”
Solomon smiled, then, and kissed me. “I know you are right—you are the wisest of women.”
“No,” I said. “I was taught my lessons well, that is all. Do not grieve for Adonijah, Solomon—he would not have shed one tear for you.”
“Or for those who followed him, to their cost. I know he would not; I knew my brother.”
“And Adonijah did this for you—he showed you where Joab’s loyalty now lies. With the anointed king.”
“Joab is too quick to strike,” Solomon said again. He embraced me, and then sighed. “Now I must go and tell my father—it is only right that he hear of this from me.”
Once I would have rejoiced to give such news to David. It was hard, now, to remember how fierce such hatred burned. Now I was only glad that I was not the one who must go and tell David that his son Adonijah was dead.
 
 
And King David too died less than forty days after Solomon was seated upon his throne. The old king’s clutch at life was feeble, almost uncaring, now; it was Adonijah’s treachery and death, I think, that truly killed him.
When David heard of the death of his last rebellious son, he turned his face to the wall and would no longer eat or drink. He was dying fast, now; each sunset we thought he could not last the night.
And then one sunset it was true.
When Bathsheba was told the old king would be dead by morning she wept so hard I forbade her to enter David’s room. For all David’s faults, to Bathsheba he would always be the king who had once loved her hot through summer nights.
“No, Bathsheba, you must go and rest,” I said. “David would not want to see you weeping here. He loved always to see you smiling; let him go remembering that. I will stay with him.”
 
 
Men now sing of what King David said as he lay dying. They tell of sage words giving advice and wisdom to the living; of praise sung to Yahweh; of prophecies for the kingdom. Men say all this, and believe it, too; well, that is what David would have wished. It
is a better tale, after all, than the truth. I sat beside David all that last night, and so I know.
David spoke—but of the past, not the future. He spoke of Saul, and of Jonathan; at the last, he spoke of me. Yahweh he did not speak of at all.
“Jonathan loved me dear. Dearer than life.” His voice was already a slow whisper from beyond the grave; almost unheard unless one chose to listen. “I was everything to him. I was everything to Saul. More to him than his crown. More than his children.”
Then David turned his head on the thin pillow, and looked at me. “You are wrong. I was everything to you, Michal. Everything.” The voice was insubstantial as smoke in the darkened room.
I sat there with my back straight and my hands folded in my lap. I said nothing. After all the love and hate and years, there was nothing left to say between us. And so I sat, and watched as the lamps guttered low and David’s thin-threaded voice spoke on and on against the coming dark.
“Everything,”
David said.
“I was everything—”
No, David,
I thought.
You were nothing; you have nothing. There is nothing without love, and that you never had. You yourself threw love away and trampled it into the dust beneath your feet.
Everything; David demanded everything. But love was the only thing worth having, and love is giving, not taking. And that was something that David would never know.
“Come and sit beside me, daughter of Saul—sit, and I will sing for you—”
I sat and held his hand as he talked, and as the night ended, and as he died. And I wept for David, almost as much as if I loved him.
 
 
“the crown of the wise … .
”
—Proverbs 14:24
 
Love is giving, not taking. I thought of this the day King Solomon’s temple to Yahweh was dedicated. I stood upon the king’s balcony with Solomon and Bathsheba, and watched as the priests bore the sacred Ark high through the streets of Jerusalem to its new home in the great temple.
The prophet Nathan walked before them; Nathan was very old now, and very fat, and leaned heavily on his staff. But he walked proudly. He was Yahweh’s prophet, and today all men would see that King Solomon gave him due honor and reverence.
The streets were clean-swept; the watchers quiet, as if they feared to raise their voices even in praise on such a holy occasion.
“Oh, Michal—do you remember the last time the Ark was borne through the streets?” Bathsheba smiled, then sighed. “How different it was, and how long ago.”
“Yes.” That had been a joyous day, not a solemn one. The people had sung and danced along Jerusalem’s streets, and thrown flowers down before the Ark. The sun had beat down hard that day, hard and golden as King David danced naked before them all. And I had watched his skin shining oil-slick in the sun, and wished so hard that Yahweh might strike him dead that my heart hurt with it. And later David had come to me, and there had been another dance, but there had been no watchers then … .
“Yes,” I said again. “It was different, and it was long ago. King David danced.”
“I know. They still talked about it at the well when I first came to Jerusalem. I always wished I had seen that. I never saw the king dance.” Bathsheba’s voice was wistful, but still she smiled at me; those days held only sweet memories for her. “The people loved him so.”
“Yes.” I turned to our boy; our king. “But they love King Solomon more.”
“Yes, love is the greatest gift.” Bathsheba sighed again; all content.
I thought of David, and of how he had thrown that gift away with both hands. “Love, and the wisdom to know it, Bathsheba.”
Solomon regarded us seriously, as if such idle women’s words were of great import to him. “It is not possible to love and be wise both—or so I have heard.” His words were all solemn, like a king’s; his eyes were all mischief, like a boy’s. “If you could have but one, which would you choose?”
“Oh, love,” Bathsheba said at once, and kissed her son upon the cheek. “What is wisdom, compared to that?”
“And you, O Queen?” Solomon smiled at me in the way that made my heart melt.
I thought of all I had and knew of both love and wisdom. I owned both, now. But if I could choose only one, which? Wisdom? Ah, yes, wisdom would have spared me much pain—and cheated me, in the end, of much joy.
I smiled upon Solomon and Bathsheba. “Love, O son of my heart. Oh, yes—love.”
The Ark passed just below us; the noonday sun burnished its gold and made it flame.
“Look!” said Bathsheba. “See how the sun makes the Ark glow—like fire!”
We each put an arm around Solomon and watched as the Ark was carried slowly past the palace, up the hill toward the temple Solomon had built. I reached across Solomon to clasp Bathsheba’s hand; we encircled our son with loving arms. Yes, love was better than wisdom, if that were the choice. But I knew, at last, that
there was no choice, for a woman—or for a man, either, if he would be happy.
It was a simple secret, hard-learned.
To love is to be wise.
 
 

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