Bathsheba, Reluctant Beauty

by Angela Hunt

  I brought my hand to my mouth, then lowered my head lest anyone see my look of distress. I did not want to contradict or question the king, and I would never dare to question Adonai, but what was David thinking? How could this be just? Perhaps Adonai had reasons I couldn’t comprehend. Still, how was Michal supposed to endure this?

  I looked at my grandfather, whose eyes flashed a warning. So I quickly slipped out of the throne room. But as my sandaled feet skimmed the stone floor, I found myself running toward Michal’s chamber.

  As swift as I was, I was not swift enough. By the time I reached Michal’s quarters in the harem, the sound of her heartrending screams filled the air.

  A squad of elite warriors had formed a circle outside her door, and Michal’s much-loved sons stood at its center—Elan, Boas, Phineas, and Hananel. Only Ziv, the youngest, was absent, but within a moment a guard approached with that young man, who had obviously been working outside. Still covered in dust and sweat, with wide, questioning eyes he looked from Michal to his brothers.

  Elan stood stoically while Boas and Phineas wept openly. Hananel, who had inherited his mother’s talent, had begun to sing a mournful tune, and the sound of his voice quieted Michal’s screams.

  I gathered her into my arms, then kept one arm around her as she turned to watch her sons being led away. Tears rolled down her face, trails of loss and fury, yet despite her grief she managed to ask me a question: “What has David done this time?”

  A tear trickled down my cheek, but I swiped it away. “He dispensed justice for the Gibeonites, whom your father slaughtered.”

  She closed her eyes as her body shook with sobs. Her knees gave way and she collapsed like a woman speared. As I tried to help her up, two of her handmaids hurried forward and lifted her, then carried her into her chamber.

  Anger lit a fire in my belly, and if David had stood before me in that moment, I would have pummeled his chest with my fists and demanded to know how he could be so cruel. Every pleasant feeling I’d come to feel for him melted away in a hot tide of disbelief and righteous fury. How could his action be just? Adonai was punishing Israel with a rod and blows, but because she was married to David, Michal would bear all the bruises.

  No wonder she despised him.

  I turned, frustrated and heartbroken, and saw my grandfather standing outside the iron gate that protected the harem. With determination in my stride I hurried toward him, then grabbed hold of the bars and spat words at him. “Why?” I demanded. “Michal is devastated. How can this be just?”

  “Murder pollutes the earth,” he said, frowning at my display of temper. “Thus says the Lord: ‘Blood defiles the land, and in this land no atonement can be made for the blood shed in it except the blood of him who shed it.’”

  I stared at him, the words rattling in my head.

  “David’s decision was right,” he continued. “The Gibeonites deserve legal restitution, and now they will have it. And the land will be cleansed of Saul’s evil.”

  I shook my head, unable to reconcile my grandfather’s judgment with the grief-stricken wail coming from Michal’s rooms.

  “You may never understand Adonai’s reasons.” Grandfather gentled his voice. “As a woman, you need not concern yourself with such things.”

  “Just because I am a woman doesn’t mean I don’t feel! I feel only a small part of what Michal is enduring, and I am heartbroken. I cannot understand how or why—”

  “Suppose,” Grandfather interrupted, moving closer, “one of those young men were to decide to reclaim his grandfather’s throne. Suppose he waged war against David or against one of your precious sons. Such things happen, Bathsheba. Men are prone to covet power and position, and those desires are magnified when a legitimate claim exists.”

  I shook my head. “Michal has not raised those boys with pretensions to power. They wouldn’t want—”

  “You don’t know what they will want, child. You can’t know. And the king, though still not himself, is wise enough to realize that meeting the Gibeonites’ demands protects his own dynasty from potential rivals. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to accede to their terms. But whether he acted out of prudence or the need to see justice done, he made the right decision.”

  I snapped my mouth shut, overwhelmed once again by my grandfather’s logic.

  My thoughts were still centered on Michal’s loss the next day when I crossed the harem’s courtyard. Every time I thought of my friend in her empty apartment, my hands clenched and my stomach tightened. My mind roiled with thoughts about what I would do if I were a man and David had decided to offer our sons to the Gibeonites. I would pick up a sword. I would take my sons and flee to some high mountain. I would sell every trinket the king had ever given me and hire an army to defend my beloved boys.

  But I wasn’t a man, and neither was Michal. And she had been blindsided by the news, so she had no time to prepare for the loss of her sons.

  I wanted to scream with fury—at David, at the Gibeonites, at Adonai himself, for requiring such bloody vengeance. Grandfather’s explanation made sense to some rational part of my brain, but I was too overcome by sorrow and rage to listen to reason.

  I walked with my head down, so I did not see Abigail until she was close enough to touch my arm. When her fingers lightly brushed my skin, I looked up and recoiled as though the devil himself had crossed my path.

  “I’m sorry.” She stood tall and graceful, yet in her posture I saw a trace of timidity, as if she had come forward reluctantly. I couldn’t think of any reason she would hesitate to approach me—she was older, more authoritative, and clearly David’s favorite. “I would like to speak to you,” she said, offering a small smile. “In your living quarters?”

  I glanced around. We were alone in the courtyard, but anyone could come along at any moment. If Abigail wanted to speak in my quarters, she clearly wanted privacy.

  “Forgive me, I am exhausted,” I answered. “I’ve been with Michal all morning—”

  “Please.” Abigail gestured toward my chambers. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  I gritted my teeth and led the way, then stood back as she entered my suite. My living quarters had changed very little since Nathan’s birth, the only addition being an extra bed for Elisheba. She had been resting when we entered, but when she saw that I wasn’t alone, Elisheba mumbled something about going for water and slipped out the door.

  I pulled out a chair for Abigail. “Would you like to sit?”

  “Thank you.” She sat on the edge of the seat and waited until I sat on the bed. We were as close as we had ever been, our knees a mere hand’s breadth from each other.

  Abigail leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “I have come to see you because you should know how deeply the king loves you. I know Michal’s situation has made you angry, but please don’t harden your heart toward David. If you become as bitter as Michal, you will destroy a man who loves you very much.”

  I sat back, stunned. “The king doesn’t love me. If he loves anyone, he loves you.”

  Abigail gave a gentle laugh. “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. David and I are friends, so I listen to his thoughts and keep his secrets. This is why I know he loves you more than life itself, and why I know he has promised that Solomon will inherit the throne.”

  With numb astonishment I realized she was privy to things no one else knew. I was certain David hadn’t told anyone about his promise to me, because he wanted to protect Solomon from his scheming older brothers and anyone else who might covet the throne. Yet Abigail knew . . . and no one else. She had kept our secret.

  “David loves you,” she said again. “He has tried to demonstrate his love in a hundred ways. Yet he is a man, so he will not risk rejection. And he is a king, so he cannot grovel.”

  She stood and placed her soft palm against my cheek. “If you cannot love him as he loves you, at least be kind to him. Do not let your anger break his heart.”

  She moved toward the door an
d opened it, then turned back to look at me. “Do not let him know that we have spoken. He is proud and would not appreciate knowing I’ve made an entreaty on his behalf.”

  I nodded slowly, unwilling to commit to Abigail’s truth. For all I knew, she could be spinning some sort of malicious web, and I did not want to be caught in it.

  At the time of the barley harvest, as we observed the Feast of Firstfruits, the Gibeonites executed Saul’s seven descendants by having them climb a mountain and then step off a cliff. I did not see Michal’s sons die, but according to reports, all seven young men joined hands and fell together to the earth below.

  Afterward, Rizpah, Saul’s concubine and mother of two of the men, spread sackcloth on a rock near the corpses and remained outdoors for nearly six months, intent on preventing the vultures and wild animals from tearing at their bodies and scattering their bones. She stayed at her post throughout the harvest season.

  When I heard what Rizpah was doing, I carried the news with me into the king’s bedchamber. As the king and I shared a meal, I tried to behave as though everything was fine, but not even for David’s sake could I pretend that nothing troubled my thoughts. When he asked why my countenance was downcast, I told him what Saul’s devoted concubine was doing for Saul’s sons and grandsons.

  David did not respond immediately, but later I learned that he went to the people of Jabesh-gilead, who had the skeletons of Saul and Jonathan, and retrieved their bones, as well as the bones of the seven men who had died at the hands of the Gibeonites. He ordered that the bones be buried in the tomb of Saul’s father, Kish, in the territory of Benjamin.

  After David’s wishes had been fulfilled, Rizpah left her lonely post, and Adonai blessed the land with autumn rains. So ended the famine in Israel.

  And I began to think that perhaps Abigail had spoken the truth.

  Because David had been kind enough to honor my concern and see to a proper burial for the bones of Saul’s relatives, I wanted to do something for him. The years after Amnon’s death had been hard on him, and though he seemed resigned to Amnon’s loss, he still fretted over Absalom. That young man had taken his family, including Tamar, into exile with him, cutting himself off not only from David but also his grandchildren. At every meal, every court appearance, and even on the occasions when the king invited me to his bedchamber, Absalom remained the most frequent topic of David’s conversation.

  Unable to bear my husband’s discontent for another month, I took Elisheba as an escort and went in search of Joab, David’s nephew and the commander of the king’s army. I found him at the royal stables and suggested that he employ a bit of artifice in order to influence the king and persuade him to end his fixation with Absalom. Nathan had done something similar when he confronted David with the sin of murdering Uriah, so why shouldn’t Joab use the same approach?

  “Find someone who is skilled in speech,” I said, “someone who can move others with dramatic words. Weave a story, plan a play, and use it to motivate the king. But whatever you choose, you must not breathe a word of my involvement.”

  Joab considered this, then pinned me with a piercing look. “And what would you have the king do?”

  “Consider the Gibeonites. Adonai sent a famine because a grave injustice was never addressed. Now consider Absalom, who murdered his brother. Perhaps the king has agonized so long because justice was never served. The king should either go to Geshur and confront his son, or he should have Absalom brought back to Jerusalem to face the king’s judgment. Though it would be painful in the short term, confronting Absalom might bring an end to David’s mourning.”

  Joab listened attentively—a rare thing for a warrior—then tugged on his beard. “I will think on it,” he said, nodding. “And I appreciate the suggestion, for the king’s grief has affected the entire nation. It is time David behaved like a king again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nathan

  HAVING COME TO THE KING’S COURT for no other reason than a prompting from the Ruach HaKodesh, I sat on a bench against the wall and studied the men around me. The Spirit of God had given me no message, no truth to tell or future to reveal. Sometimes, I had learned, Adonai simply wanted me to use my eyes to see and ears to hear.

  So I mingled with other onlookers as petitioners stepped forward to praise, petition, or placate the king. One man complained of a foul odor coming from his neighbor’s home. David told the offending neighbor to clean his house and move his chickens to the communal pen down the hill. “Your problem,” the king told the malodorous offender, “is that you do not trust your neighbors with your livestock. Become more trusting, so you and your neighbors can live in peace.”

  A woman from Tekoa stood next in line. When the king granted her permission to approach, she crept forward, gray tendrils escaping the scarf tied around her head. Falling to the floor, she said, “Help me, O King.”

  The king leaned back in his chair. “Rise and tell me what troubles you.”

  The woman lifted her head but remained on her knees. “Alas, I am a widow, O King. Your servant had two sons, and they quarreled in the field. Because no one was around to part them when they fought, one struck the other and caused his death.”

  The king straightened and gave the woman a look of chilling intentness. “Go on.”

  “What happened next was even worse,” the woman said, “for my whole clan rose against me and said, ‘Give over the one who struck down his brother, so we may put him to death for taking his brother’s life. It matters not that he is your dead husband’s sole heir.’ They want to take my last son from me, quench my last remaining ember, and leave my husband no name or remnant on the face of the earth.”

  Every eye in the court shifted from the impassioned woman’s face to the countenance of the king. He closed his eyes, his face rippling with anguish, then a hoarse cry burst from his lips: “Leave it to me. Go home, and I’ll see to it that no one touches him.”

  The woman lowered herself to the floor in gratitude. “Thank you, my lord the king. If you are criticized for helping me, let the blame fall on me and on my father’s house, and let the king and his throne be guiltless.”

  “If anyone objects,” David responded, “bring him to me, and he will never complain again.”

  “Please,” the widow continued, apparently not willing to leave, “swear to me by Adonai your God that you won’t let anyone take vengeance against my son. I want no more bloodshed.”

  “As the Lord lives,” the king declared, his face flushing, “not one of your son’s hairs shall be disturbed. No one shall touch him.”

  I expected the woman to rise and slink away at this, but apparently she had not finished.

  She lifted her head. “May I add one more word, O King?”

  David sighed. “Speak.”

  The woman from Tekoa rose and stood before the king. “Why don’t you do as much for the people of God as you have promised to do for me? You have convicted yourself in making this decision, because you have refused to bring home your own banished son. All of us must die eventually. Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. But God does not just sweep life away; instead, He devises ways to bring us back when we have been separated from Him.

  “I have come to plead with my lord the king because people have threatened me. I said to myself, ‘Perhaps the king will listen to me and rescue us from those who would cut us off from the inheritance God has given us. Yes, my lord the king will give us peace of mind again.’ I know that you are like an angel of God in discerning good from evil. May the Lord your God be with you.”

  After this audacious and prolonged statement, silence filled the throne room, a silence like the hush after a storm when nature seems to call for a Sabbath rest. I gaped in pleased surprise. Whoever this woman was, she had more courage than most men of my acquaintance. Someone had surely sent her, either Adonai or—

  “Is the hand of Joab behind you in this?” David shouted, his voice s
plintering the silence.

  I snapped my mouth shut. Of course. The king’s cousin was one of few men with the confidence to attempt such a brazen manipulation.

  “My lord the king, how can I deny it?” the woman answered. “No one can hide anything from you. Yes, your servant Joab had me do this, and he put in my mouth every word you have heard me say. Your servant Joab did this in order to bring about some change in the situation. But my lord is wise; he has the wisdom of an angel of God when it comes to understanding anything going on in the land.”

  The king turned toward Joab, who stood near the throne, ostensibly on guard. “All right, Joab,” David said, staring at his army’s commander. “I am granting your request. Go to Geshur and bring back young Absalom.”

  Joab prostrated himself and blessed the king. “Today,” he said when the king bade him rise, “your servant knows I have won your favor, my lord and king, because you have granted me this request.”

  I leaned forward, eager to study the king’s countenance. The marks of grief were apparent, etched in the lines beside David’s mouth and eyes, highlighted by a ribbon of sunlight that poured from a window high on the wall. The corners of his mouth were tight with distress, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

  David had not publicly mentioned Absalom’s name in over three years, but through this clever ruse, Joab had ripped the scab off the king’s grief-stricken heart and made us all see that the wound had not healed.

  “You may go,” David added in a trembling voice, “and you may bring young Absalom back to Jerusalem. Let him return to his own house, but he is not to appear in my presence. He is not to come to court.”