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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Queenmaker
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“I have much,” he told me once—David liked to come and spread his triumphs before me, like a trader displaying goods for sale, “and Yahweh will give me more.”
“What more?” I was a dutiful wife to David; I asked the right questions. “You hold all the land from Dan to Beersheba now.”
“Ah, but our land is not all the land there is, Michal. Your dreams are too narrow; mine spread wings as the eagle’s.”
You know nothing of my dreams,
I thought, and kept my face smooth. “You fly high, David—do you never fear to fall?”
“Yahweh is my strength,” said David, and smiled, and stroked his beard. His eyes seemed to slant; cunning, like a fox’s.
“Pious words—but will words breed warriors? Will words hold back the Philistines?” I made my words light; baubles for his pleasure.
David only laughed. “There are warriors a-plenty, more each day—and the Philistines will not attack, my queen—not this season!”
“Did Yahweh say so?”
“I have his word on it,” said David, laughing and careless, like a boy. “It is not the Philistines who threaten us. Victory breeds victory—and peace. Already the Moabites and the Aramites send tribute to my court. You have seen this for yourself.”
“Yes, I have seen.” Sometimes I stood in the new gallery that overlooked the king’s great hall and watched as men came, and went, obedient to a wave of David’s hand. Sometimes, too, words
floated upward to my ears from those who waited. Not, all such wayward words spoke of meek obedience. But that I did not tell King David.
“A great kingdom.” David’s eyes were half-closed, like a sated lion’s. “Tell me what trinkets you would have, my queen, and they shall be brought to you—yea, though they come from the world’s end.”
I shook my head. “Nothing, lord king. I am content only to see how all men honor you.” And I smiled, and smoothed the folds of my gold-fringed girdle, and thought myself patient and cunning. I did not know, then, what a fool I still was.
 
 
A great kingdom, bought at great price. That was what David forged from the union of Israel and Judah that second summer. I thought David’s conquests nothing to me; I waited veiled and silent, a queen’s image. But I wondered, sometimes, when David came to me with tales of new glories, what would satisfy David’s lusts.
Gold, land, women—all these he had in plenty, and still it seemed he must have more, and more. He had taken a fine fertile land to rule—now that was not enough, it must be a vast kingdom, it must stretch from Egypt to Tyre. He had a fine king’s house—now it was called a palace, and the roof must be gilded to be fire in the sun and make all men marvel. He had six wives, who had given him strong sons—that had not been enough. He must have a queen; what other kings had, so must King David also have.
 
 
King David was taking another wife; her father ruled two villages and a lake somewhere—a treaty-bride, poor girl. The women slid their eyes about a great deal when they told me, as if afraid that I would strike them for their news.
“The bride is to be wed from the women’s quarters here,” Chuldah told me. “King David wishes you to greet her kindly, for his sake.” She bowed her head, as if she brought news of a funeral, and not of a wedding.
“Someone must,” I said. “And the king knows what I will do for his sake.” And then I laughed; well, they all looked so like dying sheep that I could not help it. “Do not believe each song you sing,” I told them, and turned away. I heard them whisper behind me as I walked out into my garden. They sounded like mice in the eaves.
 
 
King David’s wedding was an affair of royal state, with as much gold and purple and scarlet as if such riches cost nothing in money or blood. There were guests enough to make Jerusalem a city twice again as large. There was no room for them all even in the king’s great house, and so gilded and silvered tents spread all down the hills and through the valley below the walls of Jerusalem.
When the bride arrived, I did my part to make her welcome, as David had ordered. I greeted her as sister, and kissed her mouth. I did my best to be kind, for I felt sorry for her. She was plain and over-proud; I did not think she would be happy.
But my kindness went for nothing. I saw Abigail take the girl aside—and later, when I smiled at the girl and spoke some pleasantry, she tossed her head and turned away. I shrugged, and let Abigail and the others escort the new bride to her new rooms. And I told myself I did not care; I lied, and knew I lied. The slight had hurt me.
I went to my balcony and stared out over the rooftops of King David’s city The air above the city roofs shimmered in the sun; it was early summer again. I looked, and counted back over the seasons.
Even slow time passes; the year had spun full round, and half again, since Phaltiel’s death. A year, and more, and I had done
nothing to avenge my dead—for there was nothing I could do. I could only walk quiet and grow old in this house that I hated, and that hated me.
And I was weary of hate, weary of bored women and their venom-dipped tongues. David’s new bride would be no better than the others; she was neither sweet nor clever. She might learn softer ways, no doubt, but the lesson would not come from me. Who was I to teach lessons, after all?
That was when I looked down from my queen’s balcony and saw that the house on the hill below was no longer empty. There was a woman, young and fair, who sat upon the rooftop. I watched her comb her rippling hair; it shone dark as wine in the noon sun, and fell below the bench where she sat.
“Whose house is that?” I asked one of the maids. “Who is the woman?”
My waiting-maid did not know; plainly, she did not care. Her shrug and outspread hands angered me, made me thorn sharp. “You are Hageet, are you not? Well then, go, Hageet, and find out what I wish to know,” I told her. “Yes, go now!”
She went wide-eyed, in haste; I rarely asked or ordered. My servants treated me as if I were a woman of glass and ivory—with care, lest I shatter and they be blamed for the mishap.
Hageet was soon back to tell me well-gossip and street-news. I soon learned that Hageet was glad enough to chatter to the queen, if only the queen would listen.
The house below was now the house of Uriah; the woman was Bathsheba, his wife. Uriah was a foreigner, a Hittite who had come to serve the King of Israel and Judah. Uriah was a mighty warrior; Uriah was the captain of ten men, his own men; Uriah was seldom home. His wife was young.
“And so must be close-watched by her neighbors who are not?” I said, and laughed. “Poor girl! Take her a basket of oranges, and say that Michal the queen greets her and wishes her well in her new home.”
“Oranges?” Hageet was scandalized; oranges were a new thing
then, and rare, and even King David had only half a dozen trees of them. “I will ask Chuldah if it may be done.”
This time my anger flared high, scorching as fire. “Is Chuldah queen now? You will do as I tell you, and you will do it quickly.”
She gasped, and backed away “Yes, O Queen. It shall be done.”
“And I will know if it is not,” I said, and now my voice was cold, like stone in winter.
“Yes, O Queen!” Hageet bowed, and ran off like a frightened cat. She must have believed me; I do not know why. I knew only what David or my women chose to tell me.
I thought I did it for kindness. But I did it for anger, for loneliness, for spite. For no good reason, save that a maidservant had said that I might not.
That was why I sent oranges to Bathsheba.
 
 
“Is this not Bath-sheba … the wife of Uriah the Hittite?”
—II Samuel 11:3
 
She was married to a foreigner, and she was very pleasing to men’s eyes, and so she was not well-liked by women. Her husband was with the army in the field; she was alone in a city strange to her; the little kindness called her to my hand as easily as honey brings the bee. Well, she was a friendly thing—and I was the queen, after all.
Bathsheba sent me back her thanks, and begged me to accept her favorite wrist-bangle as a token of her gratitude. The bracelet was a common thing, brass chains and river-crystals—her husband was either poor or ungenerous, if this was her best. And she would have sent nothing less, though even she must have thought proud Queen Michal would only toss this cherished treasure to the nearest serving-girl.
Poor thing,
I thought.
Then I looked at the bangle lying in my soft jeweled hand. No, not poor. Bathsheba’s message—Hageet swore it had been retold to me faithfully, each word the same—had called the bracelet her favorite … love-token, perhaps, given when her husband could afford that only, and so worth more than gold itself. I could almost see Uriah clasping the cheap trinket about Bathsheba’s wrist. My throat ached; tears stung my eyes.
“I have grown too proud,” I said. “I will wear this to remind me of that.”
I clasped the brass bangle about my own wrist and sent
Bathsheha a spangled girdle in return. And when next I saw her on her rooftop, I waved, and the cheap crystals flashed oil-bright in the sun. Bathsheba smiled, and waved back, and it all began as simply as that.
I should have kept my heart cold as rock and hard as law, but I was lonely too. We waved to each other, and smiled across the air between my balcony and her roof And so we became friends.
 
 
For almost a week I saw Bathsheba daily; she came to her rooftop each morning, each afternoon. She would look up, and if I waved she would smile and wave her hand in return. A smile, a wave of the hand; little things, but I came to look forward to seeing her there on the roof below.
The day she did not appear I nearly wept. I had so little to cheer me, and today not even that. Yes, I nearly flung myself weeping upon my rich bed—and then I thought,
Michal, you are a fool. Send a message to her, see if she is well.
Then I had another thought, a better. “Fool indeed—the very queen of fools,” I said aloud, and clapped my hands. And when a maid came in, I told her to go and ask if Bathsheba would come and visit with me.
She stared, and went away, and then half a dozen of my women came in all at once. Never before had I asked such a thing; was it wise; what did I mean by it? To hear them exclaim and protest, you would think I had told them to bring in a she-bear taken from her cubs.
“What I mean is what I said,” I told them. “Go and ask if the woman Bathsheba will come and talk with me.” I was angry, and with myself, for I knew it was my own fault if my servants were insolent. I had let them act so, I, who had prided myself on keeping a smooth house for Phaltiel. I thought about how best to mend my folly, and stamped my foot, hard. “Go, I said—or I will tell the king I am ill-served!”
That sent them. And that was the first time I knew how power felt. Such a small thing, at first; only an itch under the skin. Such a small thing, to make silly women do my will. Such a small thing, to send for Bathsheba.
 
 
It was not a small thing to Bathsheba. She came in her best gown and veil—I knew they must be her finest, although they looked rough and plain to my eyes. The girdle I had sent her was tied about her hips, oddly brilliant against her gown’s good solid country-cloth. She had tried to weave her hair into the new Jerusalem fashion, and had reddened her lips and put kohl heavy about her round brown eyes.
I greeted her on my balcony, where we first had seen each other. She bowed to me, and stammered out a greeting.
“Queen Michal—live forever.”
I smiled, and reached out to take her hands; I was as excited as she. “Do not be so silly—I am Michal, and you are Bathsheba. And none of us will live forever!”
“Oh—but they said—your servants—” She stopped and looked down, and her cheeks grew pinker. She was soft and round as a rabbit, and as timid.
“Do not trouble yourself; I will speak to them. We two are friends, are we not?”
Bathsheba looked up at me then. She smiled, and sunlight danced in the dark pools of her eyes. “Oh, yes! That is, I shall always be your friend, O my queen. It is a great honor.”
“Honor is a game for men; I would rather have a friend who loved me.”
“But you are the queen! Everyone must love you.”
I laughed, then; I could not help it. Bathsheba was so young, and her paint and spangled veil only made her look younger still. “I am no queen,” I said. “I am only a woman, as you are. Come and sit beside me, and let us talk.”
We sat upon the padded bench; Bathsheba folded her hands in her lap and stared at me round-eyed. At first she could not believe I wished to hear what she might say Well, I was almost a dozen years older than she—and, as she kept telling me, the queen. I do not know what she thought that made me other than a woman; my mother’s neighbors had never gone wide-eyed in awe of her, when my father Saul was king.
But I had been right, Bathsheba was alone and lonely in Jerusalem. She was pleased enough to talk freely, once she lost her shyness. And that first day, I learned almost all there was to know about Bathsheba, and her husband Uriah.
Bathsheba was from the hill country to the north and east; she had been married at fourteen.
“But that was last harvest—and this summer I shall be fif teen.”
“I, too was married at fourteen,” I said. “Twice.”
“Oh, yes—I have heard the songs—Michal.” She still thought it vast daring to say my name.
“Do not believe every tune you hear sung by the wind.”
Bathsheba looked at me like a startled doe, and I heard myself as I must sound to her ears. Harsh and bitter. Soon I would have lines around my mouth like Abigail’s, drawing down—Phaltiel’s face was suddenly clear before me. A face whose lines were etched by smiles, a face that was never still and cold—
And then I saw myself mirrored against the sunlight in Bathsheba’s eyes. The painted queen, with gems upon her arms and gold upon her forehead.
“I have tired you,” said Bathsheba hastily. “I have talked too long—Uriah always tells me I chatter so! I am sorry; I will go.” There were tears welling up in her eyes; already the kohl was streaking down her lower lids.
“No,” I said, and put out my hand to clasp hers. On my wrist the brass bangle she had sent me caught fire from the sun, blazing like true gold. “No, you have not tired me, truly you have not. It was only the sun in my eyes that made me look so.”
She was willing to accept that excuse, of course. She blinked back her tears and saw the bangle. For a moment I thought she would weep again for sheer delight. “Why, you still wear it!”
“Yes,” I said. “It is my favorite jewel, for I know it is the most precious. Now tell me how you came to have it.”
Bathsheba told me eagerly, and when she had done so, I understood much.
About Uriah I had been twice wrong. Uriah was neither poor, nor ungenerous—but he was ambitious. The bangle had been a token, of a sort. But not as I had dreamed; out of my own need, I had spun tales as if I were David. The truth was that Uriah had staked all on one throw.
“When he heard that King David needed men, he thought he could do better here, in Jerusalem. But Uriah has always been very clever—” Bathsheba sounded proud, yet puzzled; she was not clever, only good. “He said that if he brought men and arms of his own he would rise quickly, and then we would be rich and I would have everything I wanted. So he took my dowry-gold and gave me that in token.” She pointed at my wrist. “He said he would change it for true gold and rock-crystal when he made his fortune with the king.”
“And did Uriah say when that might be?” I was careful to speak light, and smile. So Uriah would make his fortune with Bathsheba’s dowry-gold; with what was to be hers and her daughter’s after her! Yes, and if Uriah made only bones upon a battlefield, his widow would have nothing but the gown she stood in.
“I do not know. Uriah said I must be good and patient, and wait. But we have been married almost a year, now.”
She did not think to ask me if I would speak for Uriah to the king. Bathsheba was too innocent for that, and still young enough to think merit counted for all in the king’s court.
“A year! Then I am sure Uriah’s fortune will be made soon,” I said, and smiled again. I rose to my feet. “The sun is setting, and so I must let you go.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Bathsheba. She jumped up quickly, and
bowed. “It has been a great—”
I held up my hand and shook my head. Bathsheba blushed, and smiled, and finished shyly, “You have been very kind, Michal.”
“You are easy to be kind to, Bathsheba. Will you come again, to keep me company?”
“Oh, yes!” Bathsheba’s eyes glowed in the slanting evening light. “And—perhaps—if the queen would honor me—if you would care to visit my house—but it is not what you are accustomed to, and—”
“Accustomed to!” I laughed, and could not stop until I saw Bathsheba was about to cry, poor girl. Then I put my arms around her. “Do you think I was born with a crown upon my head and gems upon my feet? My father was a farmer first and a king next, and I have lived all my life in farmer’s houses. I will visit you if I may, and gladly, and will only hope you will not be too grand for me!”
I did not know if David would let me go outside the palace walls; I would not think of that now. I kissed Bathsheba’s cheek before she went away. When she had gone my rooms were empty; lifeless. Even my women seemed false, like dolls.
“Bring me a mirror,” I said. And when my mirror was brought, I held the ivory handle in my hand and stared for long minutes into the polished silver. Of all the grief and pain and anger I suffered, I saw nothing yet. And I saw again myself mirrored in Bathsheba’s wide eyes.
The queen in all her glory.
I wondered what Zhurleen had seen, when she had looked into my face. I wondered what Phaltiel would see, if he looked upon me now.
After a moment, I set the mirror aside. I turned, and looked at my maids. I did not even know all their names. It had not seemed important.
“You,” I said to the nearest. I had to point at her; I did not know her, although she had served me many months. For the first time I felt shame. It was not their fault I was here. “What is your name?”
“Narkis, O Queen.” Narkis looked wary, as if she feared I might
strike out, as if I were a beast only half-tame.
“Narkis.” I studied her, matching name to face to know again. She had a closed face; watchful. “I wish to send Bathsheba a jug of wine—good wine, well seasoned. See to it.”
“Now, O Queen?” Narkis had testing eyes. She would be cautious before she was proud.
“Yes,” I said, and smiled at her. “Do it now, Narkis. And you, Chuldah—”
There was such a stone in my throat I could hardly say the words; Chuldah watched me, waiting.
That one,
I thought.
That one must go. I will not have her serve me.
“Yes, O Queen?” Chuldah sounded like a mother impatient with a backward child.
I swallowed, hard, and spoke. “Go,” I said. “Go and tell King David that Queen Michal would speak with him. Tell him—tell the king there is a favor that his queen would ask.”
 
 

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