Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen Read online

  “Shall we put it to the test, O great King?” the prophet said at last. His voice was a venomous thing, to wither the ear his words fell upon.

  Something in those words made my father swallow his anger and pride. I watched him do it, and did not understand. When he spoke again I could not hear him, although I leaned over the wall as far as I dared.

  His words seemed to please Samuel. There was no more shouting, and after a few moments they both went away.

  Saul bowed to Samuel’s will. King Agag was slain by Samuel’s own hand, and all the Amalekite wealth in flocks and herds was offered up to Yahweh instead of being given out among Saul’s men.

  All should have been well, then. But it was not.

  Samuel watched all done as he had ordered in Yahweh’s name, and then walked away from Saul. We did not learn where he went until long after, and then it was too late.

  My father, bitter as tears, nursed his anger until it turned inward, and poisoned him.

  And in time, to heal him, came David.

  I was nearly ten, and growing tall, when I first heard his name.

  “King Saul has a harper to give him rest at night,” they said. “Jesse of Bethlehem’s son David—he makes music sweet and the king calm.”

  My father was seldom home now, spending all his time with his army, and I had not seen him for many months. But I could not imagine his angers soothed by any harper, however sweet. I said as much to Jonathan, when he finally came home to visit us.

  “And so I said too, little sister, when his servants said that music would ease him when he was troubled. But then they brought David—and his music.” Jonathan smiled in a way that made my heart leap, although I could not tell why. I had no interest in harpers. My marriage-dreams were all of heroes mighty in battle, not of men who dealt in music and soft words. I did not know then that words and music are more deadly than any spear.

  Perhaps my face showed my thoughts, for Jonathan laughed. “Not all men can be warriors, Michal. No, do not toss your head at me—we have over-many who know nothing but how to hurl a spear and taunt an enemy. A king needs men with many different skills about him. And David—”

  “Has many skills?” I was not sure I liked the way Jonathan’s voice changed when he spoke of David. It did not alter so for me, or even for his wife, though he loved her as he should.

  But Jonathan was never one to be baited with sharp words. He only smiled again and reached to tug my braids. “He can sing words of honey and play music of gold, and speak with wisdom and tact. He can also tend sheep and never lose the smallest lamb.” Jonathan’s eyes were soft. “Someday, little sister, you may see for yourself.”

  Then I did toss my head at him, all the king’s daughter. “How should I see him? Will the king bring this shepherd’s son home from the war-tents to eat at his table?”

  “Oh, so high, Princess Michal!”

  I scowled and stamped my foot. I had some of our father’s temper, and all my own pride. “He will not,” I said. “You know he will not!”

  “He may yet,” said Jonathan, solemn as a new-anointed judge. “David sings songs our father delights to hear—and a king’s hall needs a harper, even as it needs a king’s haughty daughter!”

  Then I knew he teased, and I flung myself at him in mock rage, to beat at him with gentle fists until he took back his words. But he would not, and called me prideful and vain, and chased me round the pillars of the outer court to tickle me until I begged him to stop.

  He did, and then would have told me more about David, but I would not hear. I had more important things to think of than a shepherd’s son—“Even if he has killed a lion and a bear, which I do not believe! Harper’s tales,” I said, and thought it keen wit.

  “Wait and see,” said Jonathan. “Wait and see.”

  And we spoke no more that day of David and his talents.

  But David did not remain only my father’s harper. He sang so well that he was given the post of the king’s armor-bearer. And, so said the gossip, that was not all he had won. For he had found high favor not only with the king, but with the king’s son. It was said Prince Jonathan loved David well—some said too well.

  Our other brothers were not best pleased, but there was nothing to be done; they even said that, to give him his due, the shepherd’s son had sought no advantage. King Saul had raised David up, and that was an end to it. No, the blame was all for King Saul’s moods, which grew inconstant as the moon.

  But not so inconstant that he failed to keep our enemies at spear’s-point. For all the prophet Samuel’s complaints, Saul’s army had beaten all nations but the Philistines back from our borders, and held them back, too. The Philistines we had always against us; clashes with them were too common to even be worth much mention at the wells.

  So when word came that the Philistine troops were mustered for war at Socoh, we paid little heed to the news. Men would fight, some would die, the Philistines would go home for another season. Then a messenger arrived gasping out a tale hard to believe, and the story of that battle was to be on men’s lips forever.

  The Philistines had taken their stand on one side of a valley, facing my father’s camp, and then, rather than do battle, they sent forth a single champion. He was a man called Goliath, and he was a true giant, two heads taller even than my father. The messenger swore by Yahweh that this was true; when our men returned they swore the same, although some would have him three heads taller. This giant challenged all Israel to produce a man to face him in single combat for the victory.

  They expected the king himself, of course. In the old days Saul would have moved like a hill lion to face the challenge, and sent a spear through Goliath’s heart even as he swaggered and boasted. But Saul was no longer a young man, and his captains feared to let him try his might against a giant. I thought they were wise, then; later I was not so sure. I do not think my father thanked them for their caution, in the end.

  The messenger was all smooth words and spoke all around the coal at the story’s heart, but even I guessed, from what he did not say, that King Saul had not taken their interference kindly, and had gone into a rage. In such a temper no man would have been able to hold Saul back; he would have flown like a thunderbolt at the giant, had it not been for David.

  While others wailed and pleaded with Saul as if they were women and he a wayward child, David acted. No one had noticed until he stood across the valley from Goliath, shouting that he was the king’s champion.

  “And the Philistine giant looked upon him and laughed,” the messenger told us as we all pressed close and stretched our ears to hear. “For David is young, and wore no armor, and carried neither sword nor spear. But the giant did not laugh long, by Yahweh! While he still mocked, David killed him.”

  He waited the tale there while he drank deep of the good wine my mother had given him with her own hands; I suppose he fancied himself a harper or a bard, and wished to delay until we begged the ending, to show the value of his tale. In truth, he had chosen his words well, for I could not bear to wait another breath or heartbeat for the finish, and would gladly have shaken the rest from him, had I been close enough.

  Others were as eager, and many demanded to know how a man might kill another—and that one an armored giant—and yet carry no weapon. When the courtyard echoed as if a flock of starlings chattered there, he was satisfied.

  “A stone,” he told us. “David killed the giant Goliath with a stone flung from a shepherd’s sling. And when the giant fell, the Philistines ran, leaving their camp open to us. We chased them all the way to the gates of Gath, and they left forty times forty dead. David brought the giant’s head to King Saul. The king has made him a captain of a thousand, and Prince Jonathan has kissed him before all the army and called him brother, and given him his own robe to wear.”

  As if all this were not enough to stretch our eyes wide, there was more. For this time the Philistines had been made so low in the sight of all men that they would surely cower in their own
cities for many seasons. And so my father was to come home again—and he was to bring David with him, to live in his house and show all Israel how King Saul loved him.

  The shepherd’s son was to sit at the king’s table after all. But now the king’s daughter did not toss her head in willful pride, for my heart and mind had been caught in the net woven of David’s deeds and the messenger’s words. When my father’s army came through the gates of Gibeah to march the streets in triumph, I too leaned far over the rooftop wall, calling out and waving flowers. I had done this before, but this time it was not my father and my brothers I looked for. Like all the others, I longed to see David.

  I do not remember now what I expected to see. A war-song’s hero, I suppose, spear-tall and armor-hard. But he was not like that.

  At first I thought that my father had left David behind, for I saw no one who impressed me. Then Jonathan looked up and waved to me, and the man beside him looked up too. Jonathan turned and said something to him, and then the stranger waved at me too, and smiled, and I knew that it was David.

  And I knew another thing as well; I would love him until I died. Yes, that is what I knew that day, when David first looked upon me, and smiled. Between one beat and the next my heart was wax to his sun, and I could not bear that he should not know it.

  So I called out his name and flung my flowers at his feet. The blossoms did not stay in the hot dust, for David bent and caught some of them up, and waved my flowers back at me, smiling all the while. Then he spoke to Jonathan, and they both laughed, and moved on so that others might see them.

  The rest of the women stayed to cheer the other men, but I did not. I wished to be alone, to clutch my new joy close and cherish it, for it was strange, yet already dear to me.

  So I ran to sit behind the arbor at the far end of the roof and wait, and count upon my fingers the hours that must pass before I could seek out Jonathan and make him speak to me of David.

  Of course I was not let to sit and dream as I wished. There was much to be done to make all ready for the men’s feasting and comfort, and even a king’s daughter must be of use in the house. My sister found me out, and I was sent here and there and back again on this errand and that. I will not say I found much pleasure in it, but it kept my hands and feet and eyes busy and made the time pass. I knew I would not be able to see Jonathan until long after the men’s feast was over, and perhaps not even then.

  I was fortunate, for much later I slipped away from the women, and when I went to Jonathan’s courtyard he was there, and I did not even have to ask his servants to find him. So much was luck, and I would have run to Jonathan—but then I saw that David sat beside him.

  It was almost more than I could bear. David’s beauty caught and held me fast; I could do nothing but stare and admire from afar. It seemed to me then that I could look forever and never grow tired of his face. I stood in the shadow of the pillars like a ghost until David looked up, as if drawn by my eyes, and set aside his goblet.

  “Your sister would speak with you, Jonathan.” David had seen me; David had remembered one girl out of all those who had called out to him that day. “I will come again later, if I may.”

  David’s voice was water flowing in the desert, honey dripping golden from the comb, wind sighing through the spring grass. I was lost forever; stones and butterflies filled me and I could not move, or think, or speak.

  “No, David, do not go. This is my little sister Michal, of whom I have told you much. Come in, king’s daughter, and meet a shepherd’s son, if you are not too proud.”

  Jonathan wished only to tease, but I was too young for such a jest not to slice deep. I grew hot, and said that I would go, as they were busy with men’s matters.

  Jonathan knew me well, and saw that he had hurt me, and so he rose and came to put an arm about my shoulders. “No, no—I am sorry I teased you. Come and greet David, who is as a brother to me. I would have him dear to you as well.”

  All words scattered beyond my grasp once more, and so I looked down at the flagstones. I could not bear to look at David, for I knew he must think me a silly and tiresome thing, and wish me gone.

  “If you are my brother, Jonathan, then Michal must be my sister, and I will be glad of it—for my father has many sons, but no daughter left at home to tend us.” David did not sound as if he mocked, or thought me foolish, or wished me gone. He took me by the hand and made me sit beside him. “Stay with us, and we will talk and laugh together, and you will smile for me. Come, be my obedient sister in this.”

  “I will be as obedient to you as I am to my true brothers,” I vowed. I would have sworn anything, done anything he asked of me. That night I could imagine no greater joy than to have David call me sister.

  Jonathan choked on his wine, and laughed. I would have been angry, but then David laughed too. His laughter did not sting, but somehow called mine as well; the three of us sat there laughing until Jonathan’s servants came to see what caused the noise. We must have sounded like jackals in the hills.

  And when the laughter stopped I stayed with them, and listened as David and Jonathan talked. When I asked questions, I found that David would not speak of himself, any more than Jonathan would do his own boasting. But each would willingly praise the other, and so I heard much to their credit—although each would deny he deserved any; it was all the other. To hear David tell it, he had done nothing in all his life to earn any man’s praise.

  “What, Michal? Goliath? Oh, that was nothing—a giant is dull-witted, and slow. There was never any danger. I saw no reason for King Saul to waste his time on so unworthy a foe; I was enough.”

  “You were so clever, to think of the stones and the sling!”

  “It was habit, nothing more. A sling is what I used to chase the bears and the wolves when I tended my father’s sheep, and so comes readily to my hand. And the giant was no more than another beast to be kept away. Anyone could have done it.”

  Later still he sang for us, just for Jonathan and me. That was the first time I heard the song he had made about the slaying of the giant Goliath. “From the claw of the lion did Yahweh deliver me; from the paw of the bear did Yahweh deliver me; from the spear of the giant would Yahweh deliver me. My trust did I place in Yahweh; five smooth stones did Yahweh put into my hand … .”

  David sang that, and he sang other songs, too. The servants came to light the torches before we realized how dark it was, and how late.

  Jonathan sent me off before the women came seeking me there. I kissed him, and I kissed David too, as he was my brother now. I was bold enough when I set my lips to his cheek, but then I grew shy again, and ran away before he could say anything.

  CHAPTER 2

  “And Michal Saul’s daughter loved David … .”

  —I Samuel 18:20

  That was the start; it sounds little enough, but it was much to me. For I was the youngest child in my father’s house, and treated by all but David as if I still must be held by the hand to take my steps. But I would soon be twelve and thought myself nearly a woman, so I found such treatment hard to bear. David knew it and was always kind; he never teased me as if I were a baby, as my brothers did, but spoke to me as if I were grown, and sensible.

  He and Jonathan were together always, and often they would let me come too. I rode beside David in his chariot when they raced; I chased them through the rocks to the fishing pool; I sat with them on the rooftop in the long twilights. I was David’s beloved little sister, as I was Jonathan’s. I had his soft words and his small gifts and his hands tugging my braids.

  My sister Merab had his eyes and his heart.

  I knew that from the time I came upon them talking alone together in the gallery. I heard David’s voice, and Merab’s laugh, sounds like soft breeze on hot summer nights. When I ran around the corner I saw that they stood so close they cast only one shadow on the wall.

  At my noise one shadow became two. David turned toward me and smiled, and Merab turned away and put her hands to her shoulder-bro
oches.

  I pretended I had seen nothing, but I was not so young as that, and I knew what it meant. Merab was already a woman to delight men’s eyes; even I thought her fair. Of course David would love her.

  I did not wonder if she loved him. I knew she must. Everyone loved David.

  I thought my father loved him too. How could he not? David was the raid-leader who always won; whose victories brought glory to King Saul, and to Israel. There was a new victory-chant sung in the streets now: “Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands!”

  Everyone sang it; I, too, sang—and not once did I think how my father felt, to hear those words even from his daughter’s lips.

  But David was more than a great warrior. David was the songmaster whose words brought glory to Yahweh. Hymns of praise, tales of love, psalms to Yahweh—nothing was too great or small for David’s songs. He was loved as much for his songs as for his victories; people sang them in the streets. David used words as well as he used sword and spear.

  And he loved Saul as a son does, plain for all to see. Even when my father fell into the first of his mad frenzies, so that he thought David his enemy, David said no word against him. My father shouted and brandished his spear, and threatened to pin David against the wall, and those who watched thought he would surely kill him.

  But David sang his way out of danger that time, and my father was sorry for his unjust anger. It was not long after that he promised David my sister Merab for his wife, when the time was ripe.

  It was a promise that drew my father much praise from the people, but some of my brothers did not like it. “Who is this man, to marry our sister—to marry the king’s daughter?”

  My father would not listen, and shouted them down. If he was not too proud to own David, they should not be. And he reminded us all that he was king by chance alone, and his father had been a humble man.