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

  “And who is your sister, that David is too low for her to wed? Is this Philistia, then, and she a queen? I say David is to have Merab to wife, and there’s an end to it! I have my reasons, and they are better than yours! Who is king here, you or I?”

  It was how he ended all arguments now; my brothers left him alone after that. Few wished to tempt his mad angers.

  It was left so; David was to marry Merab and be my brother in truth. I tried to take some comfort from that. But I was growing too old to love David as a good sister loves her brother.

  Still, a brother’s love was better than nothing—or so I told myself.

  Later I knew that by the time Merab was ripe for marriage our father was ripe for madness. But the summer that I was twelve I only knew that he was breaking his word, and I could see no reason for it. Merab was not to be given to David after all, but to a man named Adriel, of Meholah.

  I heard the news as I passed some maidservants gossiping in the kitchen-court. I stopped and made them tell me the tale; they swore that it was true.

  “I do not believe it!” I said, and ran to find Merab.

  I found Merab in her room, holding a length of cloth up to the sunlight through the window. “Look, little sister,” Merab said. “See what our father has given me! The best Egyptian byssus, and not yet sewn upon—I shall be the first to wear it! Only see how fine—and there is enough for my bride-dress, if I am careful with my cutting.”

  I cared nothing for that. “Oh, Merab, I have just heard such a tale—that you are not to marry David, but some old man no one has ever heard of!”

  “Oh, is that all? Why yes, I am to marry Adriel—and many have heard of him, I assure you.” Merab stroked the smooth white cloth and smiled.

  “But why?” I asked, flinging myself into Merab’s arms and weeping for what must be her sorrow. “You are so brave—but O my sister, how can you bear it?”

  To my astonishment, she laughed, and pushed me away. “Bear what, little fool? Should I weep because I am to wed a man with many flocks, and many servants, instead of my father’s shield-bearer? Now dry your eyes, and help me sort this linen.”

  I caught up a fold of my skirt and wiped my eyes. “But Merab, Adriel is so old! How can you take him instead of David?”

  Merab thrust a pile of folded linens into my arms. “Because our father bids me do so, of course, and because I am not a fool!” Then she looked at me and put her arms around me, heedless of the bundle between us. “It is kind of you to worry over me, little sister, but what is past is past, and I shall be happy enough. Adriel is not so old as all that, and they say he is a good man. And he has paid our father a pretty bride-price for me, and will send him five armed fighting men as well. He will know how to value me when I am in his house.”

  She looked self-satisfied as a cat in sunlight. I could not believe she cared so little for David. I twisted out of her arms and flung the linens back onto the cedar-wood chest. “Merab! What of David?”

  Merab tossed her head; the thin gold leaves shimmered in her hair. “Well, and what of him? Who is he that he should wed the daughter of Saul the king? Adriel is a worthy man—”

  “A wealthy one, you mean!” I fancied this an arrow that would sting.

  “Oh, hold your tongue!” Merab looked bored and cross, and not stung at all by my words. “Adriel is to have me and there is an end to it. Now look what you have done—half the sheets on the floor and all to be folded again! Really, Michal, you are far too old to run wild as you do—”

  But I did not stay to hear the rest. I was out of her room, running through the house in a way that would have brought reproof even from Jonathan, who loved me well. But I did not care for that now. I had to find David.

  David had gone up to the rooftop, to sit alone under the arbor of vines and play his harp. When I ran up the stairs and stopped to catch my breath at the top, I thought I had never heard sadder notes fall from harp-strings. Then he set the harp aside, and looked at me, and I knew that I would never see anything more beautiful than his face.

  “Why, Michal!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  I could not answer, for I did not know.

  “Come and sit by me, sister of Jonathan, and rest. You’ve been running in the house again—but I promise I will not scold. Sit, and I will play for you.”

  I obeyed, crossing the rooftop to sink down by his feet. “Oh, David,” I gasped, “I have just come from Merab. I am so sorry! How could my father do such a thing to you?”

  David shrugged, and the dappled light through the grapevines danced over his skin; shadows pale gold and dark. “Saul is a king, and kings are driven by reasons only Yahweh knows.”

  “But he promised you Merab!”

  “But Adriel promised him five armed men, five talents of silver, and five hundred sheep.” David ran his fingers over the strings of his harp. A ripple of music lay between us, then silence, and sun hot on the stones.

  “And who am I,” he said at last, “to raise my eyes to a king’s daughter? I am only the eighth son of a humble man. I am only David, son of Jesse of Bethlehem. I have never pretended otherwise. And I shall serve King Saul well, whether he gives me one of his daughters to wife or reviles me in the marketplace.”

  His words fell on me like rain in the desert, bringing hidden wonders to life. “David—” There was a band tight about my chest, almost like a pain. “King Saul has two daughters. Merab—and Michal.”

  David stared at me until I grew hot and looked at my hands—the lattice of vines above me—the hem of my gown—anything but David.

  “You, Michal? I had not thought of you. I never thought that you—You are too young.” But there was a note of doubt in his voice that gave me hope and the courage to go on.

  “I shall soon be thirteen! And I would make you a good wife, David! I will learn to be meek, and biddable, and—and I love you well.”

  “As a sister loves her brother.” Soft words, rueful words. Gentle sorrow rippled under them, or regret.

  “No,” I said. I wished to say much more, to tell David all my heart felt for him, but I could not find the words. “No,” I said again. That was all.

  I waited then for his answer, but he did not make one. He put his fingers to his harp once more and looked out over the dusty hills. He seemed to be waiting, perhaps for Yahweh’s voice.

  “Saul promised you his daughter,” I added desperately, when it seemed David would not speak. “David—you would not want him to be forsworn?”

  A jangle of notes from the harp. David laughed, and set the harp aside. “You argue like a prophet! But what makes you think Saul will give me Michal if he refused me Merab?”

  His eyes were intent on mine, as if willing me to find the answer. And I did. “You will not ask him for me, David, I will!” Saul had many sons, but only two daughters; he was called overfond of Merab and me, for he could deny us little. “Merab does not love you, but I do—oh, David, I swear I would die for you—my father will surely give me to you, if I ask it!”

  David bent and took my face between his hands; strong hands, hardened by spear and harp. “To have you love me so, Michal—never did I dare dream of such good fortune. I had feared that to you I was a brother only.”

  I stared up into his eyes and was dazzled by the sun behind him. I closed my eyes against the burning light. David bent closer; a shadow-shift beyond my lashes. And then he kissed me upon the mouth.

  It was not a brother’s kiss, but a lover’s, sweet and deep and strange; the rooftop seemed to wheel about me, leaving me giddy and trembling. I thought I would die of joy.

  “Ask, then, daughter of Saul.” David smiled, and lightly kissed my forehead. “Ask your father to keep his promise and give me his daughter to wife.”

  I should have gone to my room and combed my hair and changed my gown, and asked if my father would see me. But all that would have meant waiting, and I could not wait. I ran to him as I was and burst into his presence unannounced.

&nbs
p; “Father, may I speak?”

  It was only then that I saw my father was not alone. Abner was with him—Abner, his war-chief. I wished then that I had come another time, for Abner made me nervous. He was a man all bone and thin muscle; like the prophet Samuel, I never felt Abner saw me truly, but saw only a stone in the path. But he was called the cleverest man with a raiding party in all the tribes of Israel and Judah both. Men admired Abner, but they did not like him.

  Now Abner frowned, but my father only laughed and opened his arms to me. I ran to him and he hugged me and rocked me back and forth. “So here you are—I have had half the women in the house complain of you today, little daughter! Well, well, what is it you want?”

  My father was a large man, broad and strong as a bear; when he hugged me, my bones creaked. I begged him to put me down, and even remembered to apologize for interrupting him. I spoke properly, with great dignity; in my eyes, I was a woman now. I wondered that my father did not at once see the difference in me.

  “Yes, yes, that’s all very well, daughter, but I’m very busy, so out with it. That’s the best way, eh, Abner?”

  “As my lord king says,” Abner murmured, rolling his maps so that I could not see them.

  I had wished to speak to my father privately; my love for David was a sacred thing. But he was impatient to return to his work, and so I forgot the pretty plea I had rehearsed and blurted it out, bald as rock.

  “Father—you promised David should marry your daughter, but you have given Merab to Adriel. Give me to David instead.”

  He looked at me and his face turned slowly to a dull red. But he might have calmed had Abner not said, in his dry way, “So the son of Jesse had two strings to his bow. Better that, I suppose, than five smooth stones.”

  Abner somehow made the last three words a mockery of all David’s beautiful songs.

  “Can no one talk of anything but that damned shepherd’s son?” my father bellowed, striking the table. It shook and the rolled maps jumped. “First Jonathan, now you—praise Yahweh that Merab listened to her father—that one of my children is free of his spell! Now get out, girl, and go to your room! And I’ll tell you when you can leave it!”

  Too shattered to move, I managed to say, “But Father—I love David.”

  He turned on me and for the first time in my life I was afraid of him. “David—David—always David! I swear by Yahweh that the next person who says that name to me shall be—”

  Abner coughed. It was a little sound, but it caught my father’s attention and he rounded on Abner. I would have fled then, but I could not make my legs obey me.

  “Listen to me, cousin,” said Abner quietly. “Princess Michal’s suggestion has a certain merit.” My father glared at him, eyes rolling like a wild bull’s. “Yes, a certain merit,” Abner repeated. “There is, after all, something owing to David—”

  “Owing! I’ll show that damned upstart who owes—”

  “—and there would be the question of the bride-price,” Abner finished calmly. “Perhaps even such a price as we were just discussing. You know I felt it was not necessarily wise to deny him Princess Merab—perhaps Princess Michal will serve as well.”

  The dull red faded from my father’s face. His eyes were shrewd once more, the strangeness vanished. “Yes … Yes, Abner, you may be right. Michal!” He swooped upon me; I flinched, but he merely flung one massive arm about my shoulders. “So you would marry our fair young hero, eh? Well, well, so it shall be. Now run along, child, run along. We have work to do. Yes. Run to David, Michal, and tell him to come here to me.”

  He bent and kissed my forehead, just as David had and upon the very spot David’s lips had blessed. There was a light in his eyes that made me uneasy, but I could not tell why.

  “Go, child,” King Saul repeated.

  I went, and did not look back.

  My bride-price was to be one hundred foreskins taken from the Philistines. So my father said to David before the priests and judges in the open court. David and Jonathan came to me with the news, to tell me before others could. It was the first time I heard Jonathan call our father mad. But I do not think King Saul was truly mad—not then.

  “But Jonathan—” I was so shocked that I could think of nothing to say. How could anyone pay such a price? One hundred Philistines! David was a great warrior, but even David could not hope to kill one hundred men before I was too old to care whether I married or not. I would not even think that the Philistines might kill David instead.

  “If he is not mad, why should he set such a price for you?” Jonathan demanded. “Who has ever heard of such a thing before in all the land?”

  “But—but he said David might have me!”

  “And he has not said I may not.” David put an arm around me. “Now do not cry, Michal—and Jonathan, do not look as if you already mourned me.”

  I sniffed, but obeyed, and David smiled. He could always draw back a smile from me; this time my smile was an uncertain thing, but it made him hug me a little. “That is better, Michal. Understand, I still mean to marry you, but you will have to wait longer than we thought before you put on your bride-clothes.”

  “Where are you going?” said Jonathan. “And what do you mean to do?” He did not sound as if he thought he would like what he would hear in answer.

  “Why, I am going to Philistia, to fetch back the price King Saul has set on his daughter—I will hear no words from you, Michal, for I will have you for my wife, and that is a settled thing.”

  I was afraid for David, but to hear him speak this way was exciting, too. All that had been paid for Merab was silver and sheep and some men for the army. But Merab had not married a hero.

  “I will go with you.” Jonathan spoke slowly, as he did when he had been thinking deep; I could tell he liked nothing about this.

  David laughed and shook his head. “You will not, brother—this is my task, and I alone will set my hand to it. Do not fear for me, for Yahweh will protect me.”

  “Yahweh will not stand at your back with spear and blade.” Jonathan spoke so sharp that my eyes stretched to stare at him. “David, are you mad as well? Do you think the Philistines will lie down for your knife? You know what my father must mean by this!”

  “He means that his youngest daughter is of great worth in his eyes,” David said, and hugged me again. “And I am but a poor man’s son—what else could he ask of me? Gold and spices? I am a simple warrior, so he set a warrior’s price. No, no more, Jonathan. I mean to do this, and I will come back to pay Saul what he asks and claim his daughter as I have said.”

  “Oh, David,” I said, “you will be careful, won’t you?”

  At that both men laughed, which made me angry. I could not see that I had said anything to mock.

  “I will be as careful, Michal, as you are meek and obedient. There, does that satisfy you?” He and Jonathan smiled at each other, and I scowled. “No, do not frown at me, but kiss me farewell. Come, now, smile for me, Michal—and you too, Jonathan. Do not worry if I am gone long without word—and pay no heed to any tales you may hear of me. True news will come only from my lips, so trust no messenger.”

  So we both kissed David and said farewell. He left that day, taking no men and carrying little. Jonathan and I stood on the wall over the gateway and watched him go until the haze and dust swallowed him into the blue distance.

  We did not see David again for half a year. We had no word of him either, until the day he came to Saul’s gate at the head of two hundred armed men. They had marched fast and hard from the Philistine border, and no messenger had outdistanced them to warn of their coming.

  “Behold, King Saul—David son of Jesse has returned to claim your daughter Michal for his wife, as you promised him.” David stood tall before the gate; he did not shout, but his voice somehow carried clear even to the top of the walls where all the city watched.

  “Well, well, so you are back,” my father called down to him. “You have been a long time about it, boy, but you are welc
ome. And if you have brought her price, you will have my daughter, as I said before the priests.”

  “If I am welcome, will not King Saul open his gate to me?”

  My father and Abner looked at each other, and Abner spoke next. “Who are the men, David? Why do you come leading the enemy to our walls?”

  David smiled up at those who watched and waited. “They are not the enemy of Israel, Abner.”

  “They wear Philistine armor. The Philistines are not our friends.”

  David stepped back and spread his arms wide. “Look, King Saul—you set a price for your daughter’s marriage of one hundred Philistine foreskins. I have brought two hundred—for these men who were of Philistia have abandoned their idols and now worship only Yahweh. They were converted and circumcised by the prophet Samuel himself, and have come to serve the King of Israel.” Now his voice was raised to shout a triumph. “A great victory for Yahweh and no man lost, but many gained!”

  He stood there in the sunlight, and smiled, and the people watching from the walls cheered and called his name; some flung jewelry to him. I saw many gold leaves and silver flowers tossed down from women’s hair.

  My eyes were all for David, but then there was a sound from my father harsh enough to make even me look away from David for an instant, and so I saw him turn round on Abner. There was such a noise from the people that I could hardly hear, but some words rose too sharp to be lost.

  “Samuel—Samuel, did you hear, man!”

  All the people had heard; I was glad the old prophet had forgiven my father at last.

  “Well, Abner, well? And what is to be done now, eh?”

  Abner looked at me and I looked away, down to where David stood with his men in the bright noon light.

  “Plan the wedding, O King,” said Abner, and it seemed to me that he wished to make people hear his words plainly. “What else?”