by Angela Hunt
“What?” He kissed my fingers, then looked at me with a wry but indulgent glint in his eyes. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard about Samuel’s prophecy—”
His eyes twinkled. “Your grandfather might have mentioned it a time or two.”
“My father believes it with all his heart. The prophet said I will have a son who will greatly affect Israel’s future, but I am not with you because of the prophecy. I am with you because I want to be your wife. I want to give you children, as many as HaShem wills. You are a good man, so no matter what my father or grandfather says about that prophecy, know that I came to your house and to your bed willingly . . . even happily.”
His eyes remained fixed on mine for a long moment, then he tapped the tip of my nose. “I wouldn’t have a wife who came to me in any other way.”
His words, spoken so simply and sincerely, echoed in our small house and warmed my heart. “It’s just—” I hesitated, searching for truthful words that would not shame my parents—“when I was growing up, my mother and father did not seem happy. I never saw them laugh together. They did not seem like two people who loved each other. Despite my father’s conviction that I had to marry a great man, I have always wanted to marry a man I could love.”
His fingers tightened around mine. “And have you done that?”
“Uriah.” I nestled closer to him and tipped my face to his. “I have spent the year of our betrothal watching you. I have noticed you are dependable and that you serve the king for long hours without complaining. I have observed you care deeply for our laws and traditions. My grandfather, who is not quick to accept an outsider, has assured me that you will be a good father and provider. But more than anything, husband, I have seen how you cared for me . . . how you were careful never to do anything that might cause anyone to question my virtue. So yes, I love you. And I am certain that the old women who sit at the well were right when they said I would learn to love you more with every passing sunset.”
He pulled me to him, his lips gentle and searching. As his kiss sang through my veins I closed my eyes, eager to love him forever.
Chapter Six
Nathan
I HAD JUST BROKEN MY FAST with cheese and bread when I heard footsteps on the gravel outside the house. I opened my door and stared at a pair of men wearing leather armor and the red mantles favored by the king’s royal guard.
The tallest man, a broad-faced Pelethite, squinted at me. “Nathan the prophet?”
I squinted back. “Who asks for him?”
“If you’re the prophet, the king summons you. We are to escort you to the palace.”
I glanced at my tunic, stained with goat’s milk and scattered bread crumbs. I ought to change, but if the king sent for a prophet before the morning chores were finished, he should accept the prophet as he was.
“I’ll be back.” After nodding to the guards, I went inside the house and pulled my cloak from a peg in the wall. I ran my hands through my hair, rinsed my mouth with a swish of water, then spat against the stone wall.
Bent over her mortar, Ornah stopped pounding grain long enough to glance over at me. “Up the mountain, then?”
“Apparently.” I gave her a nod, briefly placed my hand on my youngest daughter’s head, then I stepped outside and peered up at the guards, both of whom towered over me. “I’m ready.”
We walked the pebble-covered path that led through houses scattered around the approach to the City of David, passing shepherds with their flocks and children who scrambled between buildings as they played. Since the guards and I traveled in relative silence, I lifted my gaze and studied the sky, a cloudless blue bowl overhead. Did this royal summons have anything to do with the disquiet that had been troubling my sleep? Adonai had not spoken to me in many days, but His presence felt like an arm across my shoulders, a hand that pinched my neck now and then to make certain I had not fallen asleep.
As always, my heart beat faster when we approached the eastern gate of Jerusalem. Important men sat under canopies here, waiting to be seen by those who wanted to buy or sell property, settle inheritances, or propose business. We slowed our pace to navigate the congestion at the gate, and one of the guards scowled at me as if I might break free and run. He needn’t have worried. Running was the last thing I wanted to do.
Once we entered the city, we followed the winding streets and passed courtyards where women milked their goats and scattered feed to their hens. A merchant nearly ran into me, so intent was he on counting the wrapped cheeses in his basket. He looked up, mumbled an apology, and hurried on in his rush to reach the market.
I averted my eyes when we passed the tidy house where Bathsheba lived as the wife of Uriah the Hittite.
I had been serving as an apprentice to the prophet Samuel when a young couple brought their baby to the Tabernacle. The infant had been swaddled tightly and the face covered with linen, but when the prophet moved to bless the child, he lifted the linen and gasped. I edged closer, curious about what sort of startling deformity lay beneath the veil, but Samuel startled all of us by opening his mouth and releasing a river of words. Taken aback by my teacher’s unusual prophecy, I gaped at the child—and instead of a monster I found a baby so pleasing that my eleven-year-old mind wondered if someone had painted an image on a child’s toy.
I remained interested in the little family, often spotting them near the Tabernacle. As I moved into adolescence, I looked for the girl and wondered why my teacher had been so taken with her. As far as I could see, she was only a girl, and everyone knew that girls were merely HaShem’s afterthought.
In my mid-twenties, I encountered the family again. When I spotted Eliam and his father making a sacrifice at the Tabernacle, I waited outside the tent of meeting, hoping to see if the girl had developed into something unusual. I waited until wise Ahithophel led his son out of the Tabernacle, then I gaped like a boy who knows no better. The girl had become . . . breathtaking. Struck speechless, I stared at hair that flowed like black glass over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were dark pools, her skin the smoothest alabaster. She carried herself modestly, with quiet confidence, apparently indifferent to the many appreciative glances cast in her direction.
And as she passed by, she lifted her gaze and smiled at me.
We did not speak, not even when we were so close I could have reached out and touched her. Her father’s scowling face was more than enough to discourage any inappropriate gesture, and her grandfather’s position in the king’s court was enough to intimidate a young prophet. But that day I gave her my heart, and her smile gave me the hope I needed to wait for as long as her father demanded.
My feelings of love deepened as the weeks passed. I would have given anything to marry her, and if called upon, I would have happily sacrificed my life for her. She was no mere afterthought; she was one of HaShem’s most beautiful creations. I came to believe that Adonai had willed our long-ago first meeting, because the Lord wanted me to watch out for her and protect her . . . but from what, I could not say.
I planned to wait until I was twenty-seven and she sixteen before approaching her father. As the months passed I refused to consider any other woman, but continually pled my case before Adonai, hoping He’d give some assurance about my wedded future.
When David moved his court from Hebron to Jerusalem, I moved as well, knowing that Ahithophel and Eliam would certainly follow the king. Finally reaching my twenty-seventh year, I went in search of Eliam and found him in the courtyard of the king’s half-built home. He was lifting a cup to mark the completion of the palace wall, and one of his warrior comrades asked if he ever planned to arrange a betrothal for his lovely daughter.
The earth shifted beneath my feet at the sound of those words. I stood like a post, my legs rigid, my proposal of marriage stuck in my throat. While I waited, tongue-tied and helpless, Eliam said he wouldn’t give his daughter to just anyone, as important prophecies must first be considered.
Prophecies? Hope infused my veins, for prophecies were my livelihood. As Samuel’s student I had studied the prophecies of Moses and Miriam, Joshua and even Saul. I was prepared to discuss any foretelling or forth-telling that had ever been uttered by anyone who spoke for Adonai, but I couldn’t understand what prophecy had in common with Eliam’s beautiful daughter.
Before I could ask what the man meant, I heard Adonai’s voice as clearly as if He had shouted in my ear: Eliam’s daughter is not for you.
A spasm of panic shot through my body like it always did when the voice reminded me that my thoughts were not mine alone. For although Adonai did not speak often, He was always listening, always aware of my every inclination. His voice was firm and final; to ignore it would be unthinkable.
I turned and stumbled away. My disappointment was so heavy, so palpable, I felt as though I carried a dead man on my back. Perhaps I did—the man who wanted to marry Bathsheba had died, crushed beneath Adonai’s uncompromising hand.
I mourned for the better part of a week, sorrow a painful knot inside my chest. I remained indoors, cloaked by shadows in my windowless hut, terrified to venture out and risk glimpsing Bathsheba before my heart had hardened to the point where I could bear the knowledge that she would never be mine.
Months later, I approached the father of a girl who lived nearby. Ornah’s dowry was small, enough for a goat and materials to build a small house at the outskirts of the cleared land outside Jerusalem, but a hardscrabble life would suit me well. It would force me to focus on working to establish a household and family, leaving me little time to think about Bathsheba.
“Just,” I whispered as my escorts led me up the street to where she lived, “as I do not think about her now.”
I looked up when the guards led me to the wide entrance to David’s palace. Stout stone walls spread to our left and right as we passed through the gate with little fanfare. The king lived securely here—any murderous intruder would have to wend his way through the city’s inhabitants and dozens of sharp-eyed warriors before he ever reached the king’s doorway.
I thought I might have to wait on the king’s pleasure, but my escorts marched me to a wooden structure, where the tallest man rapped on the door. A masculine voice bade us enter, and I found myself standing in the presence of Adonai’s anointed king—David, celebrated musician, renowned giant-killer, and storied guerrilla warrior. We had met before, when a younger and more desperate David sought refuge from Saul with my master Samuel, yet I doubted the king would remember me as a lad.
I followed the example of the guards and bowed before the king, who had somehow united the often-fractious tribes of Israel.
“Nathan the prophet?” The red-haired man who reclined on a fur-covered couch appeared to be in his late thirties. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a smile darted in and out of the thick tangle of his ginger-colored beard.
I straightened to meet his gaze. “I am Nathan, student of Samuel, formerly of Ramah.”
The king sat up. “I knew Samuel well—in many ways he was like a second father to me.” His expression sobered. “I was sorry when we lost him. All Israel mourned, of course, but I felt his loss keenly. He was a true friend and a man of God.” The king glanced around, then pointed to a table where a tray of bread, fruit, and cheese lay beside a bowl of honey. “Are you hungry? I know you’ve had a long walk. Please eat something.”
I inclined my head in a gesture of appreciation. “Thank you, but I have already broken my fast.”
“An early riser, then. Good.” The king slapped his hands on his bare knees, pressed his lips together, and looked at my escorts. Without a word, they departed as silently as ghosts.
“Please, Nathan, have a seat.” Standing, the king pointed to a cushion on the floor. Still not certain why I’d been summoned, I sank onto the pillow, giving the king time to gather his thoughts.
“My seer, Gad, told me to send for you.” David paced through the narrow space between me and his couch. “Apparently this matter is something I should discuss with none other than Nathan the prophet.”
He looked at me, seeking some kind of confirmation, but I had none to give. “I am happy, my lord and king, to be of service.”
He stopped pacing. “How long have you been in Jerusalem?”
“I came here along with the king’s household.”
“Then you are as much a newcomer as I am. Because, Nathan, I’ve been thinking about this city. We’ve accomplished so much over the past year. We’ve filled in the Millo, enforced the city walls, erected the Tabernacle, built the foundation of my house. I was considering our accomplishments when I realized something—here I am, a mere man, living in a cedarwood palace, but the Ark of God, throne to the King of the Universe and Creator of all, remains in a frail tent. This should not be! I want to build a house for Adonai on this mount. I want to erect a temple worthy of the God of Israel.”
I blinked, surprised by the passion in the king’s voice. I had heard that David was a man given to extreme feelings and emotional outbursts, but in my few encounters with him I had seen no evidence of that temperament. Yet David appeared to be sincerely concerned about what could be viewed as disrespect for Adonai. Since I could not conceive of any reason to dissuade him from his plan, I uttered the first words that sprang to my lips: “Go then, do everything that is in your heart, for Adonai is with you.”
The king’s eyes widened. He clapped, the sound like a burst of thunder, then dropped to the floor in front of me and sat cross-legged, propping his chin in his hand. “I’ve much to consider.” He narrowed his gaze as he stared past me. “I’ve plans to make, supplies to gather, men to enlist in the work. Hiram of Tyre helped build this palace, but now I want to work on the Temple. The people of Israel should build a home for their God.”
He looked up, seemingly distracted, but his eyes cleared when they focused on me. “Thank you, prophet, for this assurance. I am pleased to know I’m doing the right thing.”
As if by magic, my escorts reappeared in the doorway, so I stood and joined them for the long walk home.
That night, as the sun sank behind the western horizon, Ornah put the girls to bed and then stretched out next to me. After a moment, she timidly tapped my arm. “Nathan?”
“Not now,” I whispered, making an effort to keep my voice gentle. Ornah was a kind woman, a good mother, and a hardworking wife, but she had never excited my imagination or my loins the way Bathsheba had. But Bathsheba now belonged to someone else, and my thoughts had no business trespassing in another man’s home.
The straw mattress rustled as Ornah rolled onto her side. A few moments later I heard the deep, regular sounds of her breathing, a soft rhythm punctuated by the quicker, lighter breaths of our daughters.
I got up, opened our door, and sat in the doorway, staring into the night. The moon, only two days from full, lit the ragged landscape to my right and David’s namesake city to my left. My surroundings vibrated softly with the skittering movements of nocturnal animals, and I waited, poised to hear from Adonai.
On the walk back down the mountain, a sense of conviction had gripped my heart, assuring me that I had given the king my words, not Adonai’s. When the king asked my opinion, I had taken quiet pride in my logic and inherent pragmatism. I had given him a solid, practical answer.
But Adonai had not approved, and since the king had asked for a prophet’s opinion, I should not have spoken until I heard from the Lord.
Samuel had taught me to pay attention to small things, to nudges and whispers and prickles that crept across the back of my neck. Adonai had spoken to him when he was a child, on the dark night the Lord whispered that He was about to reveal something that would tingle the ears of every listener. HaShem was about to execute judgment against the high priest and his family for the many evils they had committed.
In the days that followed, Adonai fulfilled His promise, bringing about the deaths of Eli and his irreverent sons. Samuel grew up to take Eli’s place, a
nd though my teacher died when I was only thirteen, no one had yet risen to take Samuel’s place. Occasionally I wondered if I might pick up the torch my mentor had dropped, but Israel had many prophets, and Adonai used us as He saw fit. The prophet Gad had been David’s personal seer since the days of King Saul, and only lately had the king sent for me . . . apparently at Gad’s request.
Why had Gad sent for me? Had the Spirit of Adonai directed him, or had He some other reason for wanting to involve me in the king’s affairs? Perhaps it had been a test. If so, I had failed miserably.
I closed my eyes, regretting that I would have to ask the king’s forgiveness for doling out my wisdom instead of the Lord’s. I waited in my doorway, knowing I must soon climb the hills of Jerusalem again, this time alone and with a confession on my lips.
I don’t know how long I sat—long enough for the moon to climb and cast its silver radiance over the summit of David’s city—but my eyelids were beginning to droop when the night noises ceased and the hairs on my arms stood at attention. I straightened as a current tingled my limbs, and then, like blood out of a vein, a thick silence slid toward me, enveloped and filled me until all I could hear was the voice of Adonai.
When He had finished speaking, I bowed my head in submission and sat motionless until the silence ebbed and the night noises returned.
“So be it,” I whispered. Then I stood, closed the door, and went to bed.
The next morning I rose early, dressed with care, and climbed the hill to Jerusalem with a great deal more apprehension than the day before. If I could get an audience with the king, I would speak, yet this time I might snuff the light of joy from his eyes.
After entering the palace courtyard, I walked to the wooden building and gave my name to a guard at the door. After a few moments of tedious waiting, the guard returned to usher me into the king’s presence. David was not in his throne room or the more casual space I’d visited earlier, but in what appeared to be his bedchamber. An ornate bed dominated a distant corner, while the king stood beside a large table spread with parchments.
