Bathsheba, page 12
“I looked for you after that, but you stayed away.” What was it about him that made her tongue so loose?
“It did not seem proper for the king to talk to a married woman across rooftops, so I did my best to forget you.” His admission unsettled her even further. “But I am finding that task much harder than I expected.”
She looked behind him, then down at her feet, anywhere but directly at him, but his silence only heightened the air between them until she at last met his gaze. “I have thought of you often.”
His slow smile brought the flutter back to her middle, but still he did not move from where he sat. What were his intentions? But surely she knew.
“Your husband is gone quite often, is he not?”
The frankness of the question startled her. She nodded, surprised at the emotion suddenly filling her throat. “As often as my king sends the troops to war. Uriah never misses an assignment.” She heard the bitterness in her tone and wondered what he thought of her now, knowing her resentment was aimed partly at him.
Tension pulsed between them until at last he stood again and took the seat beside her. Her heart quickened as he traced a line along her arm and shifted to face her. “You have reason to resent your king.”
She could not speak past the knot in her throat.
He tucked her hair behind her ear and bent to kiss her throat. “I am sorry to have caused you such pain and loneliness, Bathsheba.” His kiss sent little shocks through her, making her sense of reason muddied and distant. “Will you stay and accept my love as a token of my apology?” He slipped the robe from her shoulders, his hands probing in places only Uriah had dared to go.
She should not be here. But she could not stop the longing, the desperate need to give herself to him, to know him as she was fully known.
“I will stay,” she whispered beneath the gentle pressure of his lips on hers.
Emotion throbbed between them like a living, breathing thing. His kiss deepened, heating her blood, until desire won over reason.
16
Bathsheba lay perfectly still, listening to the king’s even breathing. Darkness shrouded them beneath rich purple curtains hanging from the ceiling across four golden posts. The privacy should have brought her some sense of comfort, but guilt and desire warred like opposing armies within her, making sleep impossible. She should go home at once, before anyone suspected, but to move would disturb him. Did she dare? Would he even notice or miss her? What did his other women do once he had finished with them?
The questions assaulted her until her fear returned, crushing her. Why had she given in to him? She stole a glance at his face but could make out little in the dim light. Surely the night still surrounded them. She had not lain awake here long enough for dawn to come. Perhaps if she moved very quietly, she could leave unnoticed. It would be for the best. But dare she go without his dismissal?
She shifted, testing the bed’s softness, and moved closer to the edge. But as she was about to swing her legs to the floor, David’s arm came around her waist and pulled her to him. His breath tingled against her neck.
“Don’t go. Not yet.” He buried his head against her hair and drew in a slow breath.
“It isn’t safe for me to stay, my lord. Someone will see me, and my household will wonder if I don’t return this night.” She shifted to face him and stroked a hand along his bearded jaw. “Though I do not wish to go.”
He kissed her, and she responded, wishing the time did not have to end but knowing it must.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
“Nor I you.”
His arms tightened around her, and his sigh sounded strangled, as though he was powerless despite all the power that was his to wield. “You are right, of course.”
She choked on a sob, unable to speak.
“There now, don’t cry, beloved.” He pulled her closer, rubbing circles along her back. “Everything will be fine. Am I not the king? If anyone questions you, send me word, and I will deal with them.”
She nodded and sniffed against his chest, strangely comforted. He was the king. He had called for her, and she had only done her duty to obey his request. As her father and husband had done in war, so she had done in peace. She had nothing to fear.
“I only wish I could see you again.” He kissed the top of her head and held her away from him, searching her gaze in the dimness.
“And I you, my lord.”
“Call me David when we are alone.”
“David.” She smiled, though she knew it came out wobbly. “Beloved one.”
He kissed her again, a gentle reminder of all they had shared, then released her. “I’m not sure we should risk this again.”
Disappointment mingled with the guilt she could not shake. “No, I’m sure we should not.” She touched his face once more, and bent to place a soft kiss on his lips. “Though I wish we could, David.”
She slipped from his arms and snatched her tunic from the floor. Quickly dressing in the dark, she parted the curtains of his bed and stood a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the change of light.
She sensed his presence behind her before she felt his touch on her shoulder. “You forgot this.”
He held out her blue head covering, her protection against exposure, though she was certain her guilt was evident despite any veil she might try to hide behind. The thought sent a shiver through her.
“I will send a guard to accompany you home.”
Tears pricked her eyes as she turned, caught once more in his embrace.
“I will never forget you.”
She nodded against his chest. “Such a thing would be impossible.” Another sob worked its way to her throat, and she feared she would break down and weep in front of him. Instead, she leaned closer and kissed him one last time, then hurried to the door of his chambers.
David caught her hand as she touched the latch, brought her fingers to his lips, and gave her one last lingering look. He turned the knob and opened the door. The stern-looking guard she had seen when she arrived stood straight-backed with arms crossed.
“Take this woman to her home, Benaiah.” David’s command cut through her thoughts. The guard nodded and marched away, Bathsheba quickly following. He had not called her by name, probably for her own protection, though the guard surely knew who she was. She was simply a woman who had spent a night with the king. It was time she put that aside and went back to her life, knowing that the king—David—would all too soon forget her.
The house sat bathed in deep darkness as she moved over the stones of the courtyard. Benaiah stood in silence, waiting for her to stop fumbling with the latch and open the door. When at last her trembling fingers managed to hold steady and slide the inside bar to the side, she turned to face Benaiah and nodded.
“Thank you for seeing me home.” She attempted a smile, but his appraising look stifled the urge. He had already judged her, and would no doubt tell Uriah once he returned. How well did the king trust this man to keep his secrets? If anyone knew, if Uriah found out . . .
A sick feeling rose within her as it had since she first stepped into the king’s gardens. She could be stoned. Uriah’s strict adherence to the law would demand it. He would never see her pardoned, even on the king’s request.
And then a new thought seized her. Would David implicate himself in this? Or would he leave her to face her father and her husband alone? She looked at Benaiah, wondering why the man had not left yet, then realized he was waiting for her to enter her house and shut the door, as any faithful guard would do.
“What happened tonight,” she said, searching for the words to ask him how much he knew, how much he would say once Uriah returned. “I mean—”
“It is not mine to tell, mistress. The king’s business is his alone.” He nodded to her then and waved her into the house with his hand.
She dipped her head, her heart thumping hard and fast beneath the soft blue linen. Her fingers gripped the belt at her waist, while the other hand clutched the edge of the door. She stepped into the house and slowly closed the door, waiting, listening for the guard’s footsteps on the stones.
“How did it go, my lady?”
Bathsheba jerked around at the sound of Tirzah’s soft voice, her heart suddenly hammering like hoofbeats. “It went well. Everything is fine.”
“There is no word of the master then?” Tirzah took a step closer, searching her face, but Bathsheba ducked her head and hurried down the hall to her room, needing the shelter of the quiet sanctuary, where she could crawl into bed and forget.
“My lady, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Bathsheba moved into the room, glancing about. “Are the servants in bed?”
“They retired many hours ago. I only awoke when I heard the latch. I’ve been waiting on the couch in the sitting room, worrying.” Tirzah steadied the clay lamp in her hand, her night tunic rumpled as though she had been trying to sleep for many hours.
“You need not have stayed up on my account.” Bathsheba turned away, wincing at her cryptic tone. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. If you will help me undress, I feel as though I might stay in bed for a week.”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” Tirzah set the lamp in the niche in the wall and moved closer to take the scarf from Bathsheba’s hands. “Where are your combs?”
Bathsheba felt her head and touched her undone hair. Heat crept up her neck as she realized she had hurried away without her best combs, the ones her father had given her when she married Uriah. Had it not been for the king’s realization that she had nearly left her scarf, she might have walked through Jerusalem’s streets an uncovered, brazen woman! What must Tirzah think of her? How to explain such a thing?
“I . . .” Her tongue felt thick against the lie hovering on her lips. Tirzah looked at her with concern. Dare she tell this faithful servant the truth? “I must have forgotten them.” She turned around then, her hands shaking on the golden belt, trying unsuccessfully to undo the knot as David had done so masterfully hours ago. Tears fell unbidden, and she tasted the salt as they dripped into her mouth. She quickly swiped them away, but she could not stop the need to weep.
“Leave me!” The hoarse whisper sounded more like a whimper than a command. She forced her hands to finish undoing the belt, her back turned to Tirzah until she heard the door click behind her.
She tossed the leather from her and yanked her arms out of her robe and tunic. Shivering in the dark, she fumbled for her night tunic, then tossed a day robe about her before burying her head beneath the wool covers. Uriah’s faint scent still lingered on the bedcovering, bringing the events of the night into sharper focus. Memories of Uriah’s passionate kisses and tender touch mingled with the king’s gentle way with her, until she could no longer separate the two.
Her tears came uncontrolled now, and when she closed her eyes, Uriah’s smiling face looked back at her, love evident in every feature. He did love her, didn’t he? And she had thrown it all away on a whim of loneliness.
What had she done?
17
David dipped a piece of flat bread into the red lentil stew. The spicy cumin sparked his taste but did nothing to tempt his flagging appetite. The summer heat only added to the oppressive warmth of the bronze wall torches necessary to light the banquet hall. The New Moon feast marked a month since he had held Bathsheba in his arms. He should have been able to forget her by now, as he so easily did many other women. But he could not shake what would become of her if her husband ever discovered their union.
Conversation floated in and around him, and he did his best to seem attentive, but a heavy weight had taken residence in his gut, pressed down like a millstone, and sapped his strength. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his bed and hide from court life. But his counselors found him at every turn. Oh, to fly away like a bird and be at rest.
He never should have taken her. What had possessed him to call for and claim a married woman? He had become like one of the foolish ones who moved about the streets, giving in to the wayward women on the edges of town whose husbands were away at war or on business, who did not care if they dishonored them.
Bathsheba had not been that kind of woman, and he knew deep down that she mourned even now for what she had done. For what he had made her do.
The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat, and the incessant voices of his men and his wives grew louder—a thread of laughter here, the sound of bickering there. He shoved his gilded chair away from the table and rose. A bevy of servants rushed to his aid, but he waved them off and stalked out the side door, down the winding halls, to the stairs leading to the roof directly above his chambers. The roof he had avoided for a month for fear of what he might do if he saw her again.
His legs felt sluggish, and he struggled to climb despite his desperate need to do so, to get away from the constant demands on him. When at last he reached the top, he gripped the parapet and staggered along the edge of the roof, grieving. As he’d grieved for Abigail, and yet the anguish was clearly not the same.
He moved slowly, his heart picking up the rhythm of a silent drum. Would he find her going through her ritual purification as he’d done the month before? Would her music soothe the anxious lines now visible in the bronze mirror above his brow?
He paused at the spot where he’d seen her last, his eyes closed, dreading, hoping . . . but the sounds below held no music, and when he looked into the courtyard, the bath sat perched along a wall, the water jars untouched. Lights flickered inside the house—perhaps she had guests for her own New Moon feast—but no one moved on the roof or in the courtyard.
She could have already completed her purification. Or perhaps her time had yet to come. The thought turned the weight in his gut to solid stone. Surely not. In her years of marriage to Uriah she had borne no children, and he’d spent only one night with her . . .
His feet stumbled backward, his grip reaching for the railing behind him. He shook the thought aside like an unwanted messenger. But as he made his way to his bedchamber below, where her presence still lingered in every breath of his imagination, he could not shake the foreboding fear his thoughts had conjured. If by some chance he was right, his troubles were just beginning.
Bathsheba sat on a bench beneath the open tent Uriah had set up for her on the roof to give her a place to weave or spin without the harsh rays of the sun scorching her. One of the many things he had done to make her life more pleasant, like the bronze basin he had acquired for her bath in her own courtyard so she could carry out her purification ritual in private. A ritual she would not practice this month, or many months hence, if her fears were proved true.
A sinking feeling swept over her, drowning her in an ever-present sense of despair, as it had every morning for the past week as she waited, counting the days, hoping against hope, silently pleading with Adonai to show her she was wrong. How could she possibly miss her time after only one night with the king, when nearly four years with Uriah had produced no heir? She could not possibly be with child. She was barren, wasn’t she?
She glanced at the basket at her side, where the spindle and distaff waited for her to pick them up and continue her work, but she rested a hand on her middle instead, fighting a queasy, unsettled feeling. What should she do? If she carried a child, she must tell the king. He’d promised to protect her from anyone who would speak against her, but how could he possibly protect her from her own husband? Her fate, the punishment for adultery, was death by stoning.
A deep shudder worked through her, and her queasy feeling grew. She bent forward, holding her stomach, tears filling her eyes. Uriah was so strict when it came to the law. Would he cover her sin and claim the child as his own, or demand the truth be upheld and let her pay the penalty the law required?
She dropped to her knees on the hard roof floor, rocking back and forth, knowing in one moment that he would surely demand her death, and certain in the next that his love would conquer even this. But would it? Uriah was a man of honor, and his honor, his duty, came above all else. Oh, what should she do?
She had to tell someone. She needed to confirm her fears, to be sure. Aunt Talia’s face came to mind, but she dismissed the thought out of hand. She loved her aunt, but Aunt Talia would surely tell Chava or, worse, her grandfather, and neither would keep their knowledge to themselves.
The sound of footsteps jerked her to a sitting position, and she quickly swiped her tears away. Tirzah poked her head under the tent, concern lining her plain features. Her dark hair lay tucked beneath a brown veil, and her sturdy arms held a batch of new wool ready to be carded and spun into thread. She set her burden on the ground beside the bench where Bathsheba had been sitting and knelt at Bathsheba’s side.
“What is wrong, mistress?” She placed a hand on Bathsheba’s shoulder, but the contact made Bathsheba stiffen. She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked at her maidservant for the briefest moment, then glanced beyond her toward the palace roof. Memories tumbled through her, and the stark realization of what she had done filled her with new dread.
Tirzah sat up but made no attempt to draw closer. She held out a hand in supplication. “Please let me help you. You have not been yourself and—” She turned, her gaze following Bathsheba’s. “What happened that night?”
Bathsheba swallowed hard as the silence lingered. She had no need to explain herself to a servant, yet Tirzah was probably the only person loyal enough not to cause her more harm than she already faced by her own choosing.
But she allowed the silence to deepen, listening to the melancholy song of a dove perched along the parapet. Indecision warred within her. She rested her chin on her knees and could no longer stop the tears when she looked once more into Tirzah’s assessing gaze.
