Bathsheba, page 11
David’s pulse leapt like a gazelle as she stepped into a bronze basin and the servant poured a thin stream of water over her head. The woman winced, her eyes closed, her hands lifted to the sky. Her dark hair cascaded downward to her slim waist, and he could not stop his gaze from traveling to the edge of each strand, then lingering over her glistening skin.
Heat spread through him, a fire burning and unstoppable. Who was she? Shadows spilled across her courtyard, making her body visible only in the flickering lamplight. But the darkness could not hide the perfection, the beauty, standing so innocently below him. She could not know he watched her. Not from where he stood. But when she glanced toward his roof, he took a step back, embarrassed at the thought of being caught. He had no excuse to stay here. She was obviously going through the ritual purification prescribed for women by the law. A devout woman and a musician. Did she share his lonely heart?
The possibility cheered him. Would she understand his need, his own empty longings, that no woman seemed able to fulfill? The sound of her voice talking to a servant drew his eyes back to her again. The sight made his heart stand still. Her head was bowed as though she was praying, and the servant poured the last of the water over her head, the liquid sliding easily over her exposed skin into the basin. Every movement made his blood pump thicker, faster, until desire blocked every thought from his mind.
When she stepped from the basin and accepted a towel from the servant, David’s heart quickened. He must act now before she slipped into her house. He moved unwillingly from the spot where he could see her and walked a few paces away to the stairs. At his summons, Benaiah hurried up the steps.
“Yes, my lord.”
David motioned with his hand for Benaiah to follow. He peered down at the precise spot and breathed a sigh that she still stood drying herself in the courtyard. David pointed to her and met Benaiah’s gaze. Benaiah backed away and David followed.
“Send someone and find out who this woman is,” David whispered.
Benaiah nodded and left to do David’s bidding. David stepped back to watch as the woman released the towel and allowed the servant to slip a fresh tunic over her head, his heartbeat picking up its pace again, anticipation filling him. If she were not married, he would send for her father this night and arrange a betrothal and marriage before week’s end. What need would there be to wait? He could easily afford any bride price and required no waiting period. His servants might balk at putting a wedding together so quickly, but they would do his bidding whether they agreed with him or not.
He rested a hand on his beard, cupping his chin, entertaining a smile. He would set her apart from the other women. They would spend every evening he could spare making music together in her lavish apartment, the apartment he would have built for her once she belonged to him. In the meantime, he would allow her to stay in his own rooms. And why not? He had given Abigail the privilege before Chileab was born. Even if this woman conceived soon after their marriage, he would keep her close.
A throat cleared as someone approached. He stepped away once again as the woman retreated into her house, her absence leaving a void in his heart. No matter, if he could bring her into his home at week’s end. How was it possible he had not seen such a beautiful woman before now? He glanced up at Benaiah, reading warning in the man’s gaze.
“You have news.”
Benaiah gave a nod toward the woman’s house. “Is this not Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and wife of Uriah the Hittite?” He crossed his arms over his chest, immovable.
David looked away, feeling a sudden death blow to his plans. Bathsheba. He knew that name. They had met before, and he had dismissed her beauty because she belonged to one of his mighty men. He glanced from his roof to hers, wondering how it was possible that he didn’t recognize it earlier. She was the woman who had captured his attention more than a year ago. But not so completely. Not in this way.
Irritation spiked within his breast, the earlier restlessness making his feet tread the length of the roof and back again, once, twice. But the desire to have her would not flee. He glanced toward her roof, the music of her laughter and her lyre silent now. Her husband was fighting before the gates of Rabbah, as was her father. He could take her and they would never know of it.
His palms grew slick with sweat, his heart drumming an anxious rhythm at the thought. Would she come? But of course she would come. He was the king. She would have no choice but to obey his summons, and once she was in his private rooms . . . He let his thoughts drift, imagination making his blood pump harder again. When had a woman made him yearn for her so? Not since Abigail had stood before him in the cave the night he’d married her.
“Send for her.” He walked to where his guard stood waiting and met Benaiah’s gaze without flinching.
Benaiah’s look held censure, reminding David of the man who had once disdained Saul’s annulment of his marriage to Michal. “She is the wife of another man, my lord.”
“Whatever happens, you are not responsible. Just do as I say.”
Benaiah shook his head. “In good conscience, I cannot approve of this, my lord.” He held David’s gaze a moment longer than he would normally have done. “I will send someone else.” He turned without a word and descended the steps.
15
Bathsheba rested her foot on a low bench of her bedchamber while Tirzah sat on the floor, drawing henna patterns on Bathsheba’s arches and heels. The activity was useless since Uriah was not home to see their efforts, but it cheered her to do something besides keep the laws and do the chores, day after day with no one besides the servants to share them with.
“You can do my fingernails when you finish. Though I’m not sure why I bother.” Bathsheba leaned back against the cushions Tirzah had propped on the bed for her comfort, sighing. “When will this war end? I am so tired, Tirzah! I want to do something, to go somewhere, to hold my husband close again.”
“Hold still. You’re moving too much.” Tirzah dipped the reed in the dye and tsked. “Uriah could come home tomorrow, and this will have all been worth it.”
Bathsheba humphed and crossed her arms. “Sabba would have said something if the end of the war was near, and you know it.” She narrowed her eyes at the servant. “You haven’t heard something you’re not telling me, have you?”
Tirzah shook her head, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Nothing new. The only rumor I’ve heard is the one I told you about earlier, that the king might leave soon for Rabbah. The city will become quieter and even more boring once he leaves. If it’s true.”
“It will only give the people less to gossip over. He sits holed up in that palace and never pokes his head out. I wish he would hold a parade or invite us to another banquet or something. Maybe you are right—it is time I visit my aunt again. Chava will drool over your work, but you mustn’t paint her feet even if she begs you.” Bathsheba pursed her lips, enjoying the thought of seeing Chava pout over Tirzah’s gifts, which Bathsheba happily employed.
“I would not even consider such a thing, mistress.” She gave Bathsheba a conspiratorial look as she placed the last line along the inside edge of Bathsheba’s foot, then blew on the henna and waved a hand over it to help it dry. “Your feet are fit for the king himself!”
Bathsheba giggled at Tirzah’s bloated face as she puffed air over her feet. “Unfortunately, Chava will have to do.” They had not seen the king since the day she and Chava had watched him return from the war, when they had stood and enjoyed the fanfare from her grandfather’s roof.
A knock on her bedchamber door stopped her laughter. Tirzah slowly stood and took her time to answer. Bathsheba sat up and wiggled her feet, trying not to smudge the paint, willing them to dry faster.
Anittas stepped into the room and dipped his head in respect. “Mistress, you must dress quickly in your best robes and come at once. Messengers have come from the king. Your presence at the palace is requested immediately.”
Bathsheba gripped the edge of the bed, her breath growing still. “The king? Is asking for me?” A nervous quiver worked through her. “What could he possibly want?”
“I don’t know, mistress. I hope nothing is wrong. The messengers didn’t say.” Anittas’s stricken look brought her thoughts up short. Uriah! Why hadn’t she thought of him first?
“You don’t think . . .” A sick feeling replaced the shudder. “He must be all right. He’s strong, a mighty warrior . . .” She searched for words to convince herself her husband was not injured or worse. “But why else would he ask for me unless . . . could it be Father?” Her mother had died long ago, so if her father had been killed, she would be the first to know, except . . . no, her grandfather would be told first. It had to be Uriah.
Emotion pricked her throat while fear and excitement set her mind spinning. The king had sent for her! She must dress. She lifted one foot and touched the paint. “I think it’s dry.” She glanced at her hands. “But you never got a chance to stain the nails.” She looked at Tirzah, beseeching.
“I will leave you two alone. I suggest you choose your best clothes, my lady. No need to wear the black sackcloth of mourning until you know why he has called for you. Perhaps it is nothing.” But Anittas’s words did not match the glimmer of worry on his lined face.
Tirzah was already snatching jewels from a box on a table in the corner and pulled Bathsheba’s green-and-blue-striped robe from a peg along the wall. “Do you want to keep that tunic? It’s fresh, but it’s not your best.” Tirzah moved to a basket and grabbed two pairs of sandals. “Which ones?”
Bathsheba touched the white linen tunic covering her body. “Give me the blue tunic.” The pale blue matched the robe better. “And the golden leather sash for my waist, and the yellow leather sandals—they’re the closest fit to complement the belt.”
Tirzah nodded and had Bathsheba dressed quicker than she expected. “What about my hair?” They had just finished combing the tangles from each strand. It hung full and thick to her waist, but she couldn’t possibly wear it down to see the king.
“I’ll pull it up with your jeweled ivory combs.” She handed the blue scarf to Bathsheba, the same fine pale linen as in her tunic.
Bathsheba sat obediently, allowing Tirzah to dress her hair and dab a small amount of kohl on her eyes, then carefully place the head covering over her head, draping it loosely across her face. Excitement raced through Bathsheba as she walked to the door, her pulse pounding, her fear mounting.
Tirzah squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered as the king’s messengers met her in the outer courtyard.
They looked at her, their gazes assessing.
“Do you want me to accompany you, my lady?” Anittas came up beside her, giving the king’s messengers a stern glance. Did he think she needed protection from the king’s own guards?
“The king requested her presence alone,” one guard said. He carried a torch to light Jerusalem’s dim streets and turned abruptly to walk away. Bathsheba gave Anittas an apologetic look and hurried to follow while the other guard came along behind her.
They walked in silence, the sound of their marching feet barely drowning out the drumbeat of her anxious heart. At the gates to the palace, they did not pause but passed by the guards who appeared bored and uninterested.
The banquet hall came into view, and Bathsheba recognized the cedar carvings on the doors and the marble columns along the portico. The lion’s head symbol of Judah greeted her on wall tapestries, and fig leaves adorned the edges of oak tables in the anterooms, where scribes sat recording something on scrolls and servants milled about cleaning and refilling oil lamps.
After several turns in the hall, they came to another carved door, where the lion’s head boasted a proud look daring all who might enter to remember who guarded this place. Was this the king’s private residence?
One of the guards knocked twice, and the door was opened by another guard whose stern look nearly stopped her heart. He bid her enter, then both men stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her and leaving her alone.
Nervousness made her palms moist. She took cautious steps into a walled garden. Set stones made a cobbled walkway, while a variety of trees and bushes of almond, fig, and sage sat among potted plants whose flowers were long past the bloom of spring. Water sat in pools of marble, and tall sconces held covered torches. Even in the heat of summer, the garden took her breath, its beauty unequaled to any she had seen in Jerusalem.
Music drifted to her from across the court and out of sight. She moved slowly forward toward the sound, the minor chords pulling her with unseen hands. Where was she? And then she saw him, and her knees grew so weak she searched for a place to sit. A stone bench seemed to await her, opposite him where he sat strumming his lyre, his gaze taking her in.
She reached the bench and sank down, her hands clutching the edge, her back straight. His dark eyes held her bound, his look possessive as if he knew her . . .
Her breath hitched, and her hand moved to her chest to somehow still her racing heart. He did know her. He had seen her. The realization drained her blood. She was always so careful.
Shame brought the blood rushing back, and she stood with such force she nearly lost her balance. She whirled about, her cheeks blazing. She took two steps forward, but her limbs felt leaden, useless.
“Don’t go.” His words were soft, like a caress.
The music ceased, and she sensed he had risen, but still she could not make her feet obey to turn and face him or run back along the cobbled path to the door, through the palace halls, and to the safety of her own house. How could she run from the king?
His touch on her arm made her middle turn to liquid. He fingered her head covering. “I heard your music. Your tunes were haunting.” He turned her slowly to face him, and she was unable to stop him. “And I could not pull away.”
His gaze searched hers, his dark eyes assessing, almost . . . vulnerable. Night breezes lifted the tassels of her scarf, and when his hand moved to pull the blue fabric from her face, she lowered her gaze, the action humbling her. “I share your loneliness.”
Butterflies took wing inside of her. Warmth crept up the back of her neck, filling her face. Her heart thudded faster as she felt the combs coming loose from her hair and his fingers sift the strands away from her face.
“Look at me, Bathsheba.”
She lifted her head, and his hands moved to her waist, expertly undoing the knot of her belt. “You know my name.”
“I know more than your name, beloved.” He let the belt drop to the stones and placed his hands on her arms, slowly moving them until he cupped her face and lowered his lips to hers.
His kiss was gentle, but when it deepened, images of Uriah flitted before her closed eyes. She flinched.
He pulled back, looking at her. “Do I offend you?”
Did he? She should say yes, of course he offended her. She had a husband who went to great lengths to protect her, and here she was throwing away all he had worked to do, with a man whose very look stole her breath. What was she doing here?
“Why did you call for me?” It was a foolish question, one she could already answer, but she needed to think, and she couldn’t do so with him standing there looking down at her, caressing her.
He stepped back from her then, and she noticed the royal insignia on his robe, the circle of gold on his head. He had dressed as a king, not a lover. To remind her he expected to be obeyed? Would Uriah suffer if she did not do as the king was asking her to do?
“I think you already know the answer to that question.”
And he would take what he wanted because he had the power to do so. This was not love. Love was at home with Uriah.
“I want you, Bathsheba.” His words were a mere whisper, their meaning sinking deep, wooing her, softly stripping her resolve. “Though in truth I must sound to you like a callous fool.” He moved to the bench and sat, picked up his lyre, and strummed, the music coming in soft, gentle tones, a melody tender and poignant, drawing her in.
Her heart stirred at the sound, and she sank down on the bench again, her gaze fixed on his. Shadows bathed his face, the flicker of the lamps illuminating the dark eyes and the boyish tilt to his brow. His look assessed her with familiarity and longing, and her heart skipped like a skittish gazelle, then slowed as though realizing she was caught with no way to escape.
“I don’t think you are callous or a fool,” she said at last. She studied her hennaed feet. “I think you are often misunderstood . . . as am I.” The admission heated her face again, and she drew in a breath when the music stilled once more.
“Where did you learn to play the lyre?”
She looked up. He had not risen or sought to touch her again, but she could not escape the desire in his eyes. “My cousin taught me to play when I was a child and built a small lyre for me as a gift. My father and my husband do not care for it overmuch, so I play most often while he—while they are away.” She glanced at her hands and gripped her robe, kneading the fabric between her damp palms. Why was she telling him this?
“You play beautifully. I should enjoy hearing you sing. Will you play for me?”
The question startled her, her gaze snapping to his. “I am not very good.”
“On the contrary, you are quite good.” The lines around his eyes softened, and he leaned against the bench, his lyre resting on his lap. He studied her for a long moment, the fire in his eyes growing to embers, and his smile melted her insides. His distance was doing strange things to her senses, his silence unnerving.
“I have made you uncomfortable calling you here.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t know how to respond. “Most people do not speak easily with me, their king.”
Her hands stilled from pleating the folds of her robe. “I found you quite easy to talk to that day on the roof.” Did he remember?
His gaze sparked with recognition. “Ah yes, last year, when the war with Ammon first began. You were the woman I could not forget, who haunted my dreams many nights afterward.” His mouth tipped at one corner, and he suddenly looked far more like a young boy than a king.
