Chapter Text
David did not try to renew our intimacy again. At times he visited the women's quarters to speak with us, or sent for Abigail to come to him. He did not ask for Ahinoam, who spent her days with her son burbling in her lap, and she did not appear to mind. On rare occasions, for the pressures of ruling kept him busy, David would join us and play the lyre, and though I no longer loved him I could not bring myself to despise him when he played.
Even as a husband in name only, David was not unkind; he granted any wish we asked for, and his son Amnon grew into a spoiled, ill-tempered child due to the over-indulgence of both his parents. David clearly doted on the crown prince, and we soon learned to accept that whatever screaming wish the child expressed in his father's presence would soon be granted. Abigail was displeased, but as I had grown up in a stark, unforgiving household, I did not see the harm in pampering one so young. At least he was happy.
Only one wish of mine did David constantly refuse whenever I asked him: my desire to see my sister. I asked if she might be entertained at the palace, since the grounds were certainly extensive enough that she and her entire family could stay and bother no one, but David shook his head.
"I think not," he said, distracted by the clerk who read out to him the day's tasks. I stood at the base of the dais, fuming, but he did not bother to look up at me. "I am certain that Merab would not accept the invitation; it would be awkward to invite her into the home of the man who supplanted her father as king of Judah. I do not wish to put her in such an uncomfortable position. Moreover, it would be troublesome for her to travel with her family, as children do not take to long journeys well. It would be unkind to put her in the position of refusing a royal invitation."
"Do you speak of my sister's comfort, or my own?" I demanded. "We do not reside in Gibeah; there is nothing familiar here in Hebron that might vex her. It is you who do not wish to see another daughter of Saul, let alone her sons. Don't seek to deflect the truth!"
This time David did glance up, his gaze sharp and unpleasant. "When you were young, your open temper and strength made you winsome, but now, my first wife, you run the risk of nagging."
"Then nag I shall," I said, barely restraining myself. "If you will not have Merab at the palace, may I have leave to visit her? Or are you afraid that I will not return, and that together two women and a handful of children will conspire together to restore the house of Saul and have you overthrown?"
"Enough," David said. "I have made my decision and you will abide by it."
It was so every time I asked, whatever my tone, regardless of whether I railed or cajoled or hinted, and after three years I accepted that David would not have us meet again. I took this disappointment into my heart, though I should have let it pass as I had the loss of Palti, and it festered there, turning my every thought to resentment. In my unhappiness I thought of my other marriage; I had not seen Merab during my stay in Gallim due to the perils of war, but I felt confident that if I had asked -- if the conflict had subsided enough for me to make the journey safely -- Palti would not have denied me.
I recognized the seductive danger of such thoughts, however, and I did my best to cleanse myself when I caught them circling like carrion-eaters around my thoughts. Still, no matter how I prayed, how I tried to understand, I could imagine no reason for David's insistence on keeping me from my sister except for political gain.
One afternoon, following yet another attempt and failure, I stormed out to the roof and stared out over the city, fury burning inside me. A cool breeze blew over me, raising goosebumps on my skin, and I looked out at the houses below me, the pattern of roofs and streets that stood out in uneven blocks as the sun glittered from the stone. Birds swooped down between the dwellings, seeking choice bits of food or material for their nests, and as I watched, a slow calm suffused me and carried away my anger.
The LORD had not abandoned me, though He had tested me. It would do me no good to keep tasting the bitter herb until it poisoned my tongue to the flavour of anything sweet. And so, on that rooftop, looking out over the city that was mine and yet not mine, I closed my eyes and let my resentment lift and float away like a spiderweb on the breeze.
Footsteps sounded behind me, quiet and uncertain. I recognized Abigail's tread; she and I were not quite friends despite my invitation, but no longer indifferent. "I am sorry about your sister," she said, coming up beside me and resting her hands on the edge of the parapet. "It must pain you."
"It does," I said. "But she is well, or someone would send word. That will have to be enough."
Abigail let out a long breath. "David withdraws from me," she said. "I sense it. I would eagerly blame your presence here, but I know now that it is not because of you. He does not send for me, and often he goes out and does not return until the morning. I think he has found another." She drew in a sharp breath. "I gave him a son, and Absalom is hale. They say he is likely to survive childhood, that he shows excellent resistance to illness. They say he has a promising chance of being a good, strong man. What more must I do? Why is it not enough?"
I winced, and after a moment's calculation I lay my hand to rest on top of hers. She stiffened but did not pull away. "Do not blame yourself," I said, and I tempered my words for an assault against David's character would do no one justice and help nothing. "He is a man as much as he is a king and servant of the LORD, and as such we must not be surprised. It does not mean he loves you any less; you might think of it as a candle, where the lighting of another does not diminish the original flame, but only adds to it."
I did not believe my words, and likely Abigail did not, either, but she said nothing. We stood together and watched the sun set behind the maze of buildings.
Years passed. Seven years after my return to Hebron at David's behest, they crowned him king of all of Israel, and he finally fulfilled the fear that had driven my father to madness. The thought of David usurping his throne and replacing him in the eyes of the LORD and the land as rightful king of the Israelites had driven my father to destroy his family and ultimately lose his life, and now, despite all his efforts, it happened.
It made little difference to me, except that soon after David conquered the city of Jerusalem and made it the home of the royal residence, resulting in an uproar as the entire household made the long, hot trek north. We stopped at Bethlehem to pay homage to his family, who greeted their king and kin with awe and reverence -- and only a little jealousy from his brothers, who did their best to hide it -- before moving on. We remained at the old residence at Gibeah while construction commenced, but within the year we were all ensconced in the new dwelling at Jerusalem.
In that time, David not only added an enormous palace to his kingly acquisitions, but three new wives and at least ten concubines; I stopped counting as they entered the women's quarters, and I did not feel the personal betrayal which left Abigail -- poor, clever, resourceful Abigail, who did so much for him and yet was cast aside -- speechless and white-knuckled with rage.
Indeed, the feeling I felt might be called amusement, if a dry and humourless sort. David was a great king -- surely, the kingdom prospered beneath his reign, and our enemies scattered like dust on the wind -- but as a husband he had shown his lack. I could scarcely recall the humble, shocked shepherd's boy turned soldier who had refused not one, but two royal marriages for fear that he did not deserve the honour.
I ignored the concubines, who did not enter the rooms reserved for the wives, and I treated Maacah, Haggith and Abital with courtesy until they sniggered at my presence -- aging, childless, wife in nothing more than name by now, little more than a servant in their eyes. I did not stoop to quarrel with them, but merely raised my eyebrow and allowed my politeness to cool. If they wished to behave like children I would not lower myself to that level, and soon they gave off and turned to bickering with each other for David's affection.
For my part I was glad not to have it, as the price attached was far too great. I busied myself with other duties, running this section of the household and fulfilling the diplomatic role of first wife, welcoming visitors to the palace and entertaining the wives of any present in the company. Outside David once again struck up a war between Israel and the Philistines, and again, just as in his youth, he defeated them again and again and again. Inside, little changed, and we lived as we always had.
One day, David called his household together, all his wives and children, the latter shifting restlessly in their mothers' arms or running pell-mell about the room as their nurses did their best to shush them. David paid them no mind even when young Absalom crashed straight into his legs in pursuit of Amnon, who had teased their sister Tamar until she cried. Across the room, Chileab frowned at the three of them.
"I have decided to return the Ark of the Covenant to its rightful place, here in our city," he said. "I am calling every able-bodied man of Israel to come with me, and we will bring it home."
My legs collapsed beneath me, and I clutched the wall for support. To see the Ark -- to have it with us, here in the royal city -- my heart swelled at the thought, and for the first time in a decade, I felt the faintest stirrings of love and gratitude toward my husband. Despite his greed for women, despite his carelessness with our feelings, he remained a pious man, for he would not make such a dangerous endeavour simply for appearance. If he sought the Ark, it was because he wished to make himself right with the LORD.
David continued to speak, but I turned my face away and wiped the tears from my cheek. Long had I sent my prayers to the LORD; long had I visited the temples, kneeling until it ached to stand. I could not even imagine how it would be to see the Ark.
While David and the men were gone, the entire household lay in tense readiness, for they had left us with few protectors -- only those too old or injured to join the company of thirty thousand which marched into Judah. It would have been an easy thing for David's enemies to march against Jerusalem and take it, but the LORD was with us during this holy time, for no one even set foot at the edge of the city.
For three months I could not eat, managing to swallow a few mouthfuls so I would not waste away, and I scarcely slept. I prayed and pored over the scrolls in my tefillin until I feared I would stain them with the oil from my fingers and placed them back, and every day I asked the messengers for news.
At last, they said that the men were returning, less than a week's journey from Jerusalem. I went to the kitchens and announced a feast for the entire household, for this was a time of rejoicing and should be treated as such. The messengers said that David planned to invite every man, woman and child in Israel to come to the city to view the Ark once it arrived, and should be furnished with bread, meat, and wine, and so I threw myself into preparations, gathering supplies and readying the grounds for the tents.
I retreated to the palace, weak with exhaustion and weary with the force of my excitement, when I heard the distant sound of celebration, the cheers of the people and the peals of the shofar. I roused myself and went to the window, where I clutched the sill to hide my trembling.
I could not bring myself to go down, not yet; the streets thronged with crowds, shouting and blowing the shofar and flinging flowers and leaves into the road, and my heart quivered. My fellow wives, the concubines, and the slave girls ran down to the entrance of the palace to watch the celebration, but I remained where I was. Once I crossed the threshold of the house and passed into the street I would make it real, and I wanted, just for a little while, to savour the anticipation of the moment before its realization.
I would not call myself a cynic -- to be cynical seemed to me to turn one's back on the LORD for the satisfaction of being proven right, however unhappy -- but I had come to realize that often the buildup, when hopes and dreams swirled together like the silks and skirts of dancers twirling past each other in a performance, far exceeded the truth of it when it happened.
Just for once, I wanted to be wrong. I wanted all my waiting to be fulfilled in a way that didn't turn and slap me in the face, and perhaps this would be it. Surely nothing could go wrong at a celebration for the return of the Ark; surely everyone would be sucked up into the whirlwind of worship and reverence, and all the doubts and jealousy and unpleasantness that had plagued our house over the past several years would fade away, even for a few glorious hours.
The procession neared the royal residence, and with each roar of the crowd and peal of the trumpets, my heart leaped up toward the skies. Children ran ahead, waving branches and shouting -- too young to know the significance, of course, but the mood of the crowd swept them up regardless -- and soon the women of the city followed. Not long after would be the men, dusty and exhausted but buoyed up with success and the knowledge that they had performed the LORD's work.
I stood in the window as the procession reached the courtyard, and at its heart I caught a glimpse of gold, flashing in the sun. The beauty of it struck me in the chest, and I revelled in it for all of five glorious, mind-melting seconds before a different sight caught my eye and dragged me away.
My husband, clad in an ephod with nothing under it for his modesty, whirling and cavorting in the streets as might a Canaanite before his idol, and shooting smiles at the girls on the sidelines who gave him admiring glances.
I did not care that David flirted, even with more wives and concubines than any man could ever hope to need, even if he did so in full view of the entire city. I did not -- it was no different than his bringing home new women to the household and asking us to accept their presence as we did a new piece of furniture. Leaving us to take care of them when he forgot them the next month, as our sympathy hardened into resignation and we fought to remember ourselves in that moment, lost and betrayed and scrabbling for validation, even as we hated them.
I did not care. I did not. And if I did, that was an old wound, scabbed over until I no longer paid it attention; what mattered was that David danced in holy attire, attire he had no right to wear, and he had not bothered to wear it properly, over his robes. He wore it with nothing else, the flash of his golden thighs visible to anyone who might care to gawp at him, and he danced with no thought to anything or anyone, to propriety or to his family or to the tremendous, holy thing that his men carried behind him.
He had brought back the Ark, but rather than treat it with respect and reverence, he used it as an excuse to display himself to the crowd, to grin and flick his fingers in invitation to the women who tittered and giggled and whispered to each other, to the slave girls who would not dare to look at the master of the house had he not given them permission.
The crowd moved past the palace, and I withdrew into the house, pressing my hand against my chest, my heart thudding against my palm. It would continue on to the tent we had rigged to receive the Ark, and there David would pass out the bread and meat and wine that we had prepared, until everyone received the gifts he had promised them. I could not bring myself to join them; I would not descend into the throng and watch my husband debase himself before the nation, though they all leered and grinned and seemed to see no shame.
Instead I sat in my room and read the Scriptures until the letters blurred in my sight and my mind finished the holy sentences. There I remained, humiliation curling in my chest.
I was a princess, the daughter of Saul, married once to a soldier, then to a good man, and then stolen back by a king. I deserved better than to see the man whose soul I once thought bound to mind behaving like a follower of one of the pagan gods. The kingdom deserved better than a king who permitted himself such displays. As for the LORD -- while no, I would not speak for Him no matter how deep my fury, I would not let this pass. The other wives would say nothing -- Ahinoam, as mother of the crown prince, possessed the authority, but she was quiet and subdued, and the others did not have the jurisdiction -- but I, first wife in name if nothing else, had a duty to perform.
Hours passed while the revelry continued; people streamed to and fro on the streets, carts and beasts of burden carrying the promised supplies, servants struggling with heavy caskets of wine to replenish the thirsty worshipers. I did my best to pray as I waited but I could not direct my thoughts upward to the LORD with any success; the thought of my husband -- dancing and spinning in such an earthly, improper manner in front of all of Jerusalem, the priests and holy men and everyone who might see him for what he was -- dragged me back down into the mire of anger.
At long last the flood of gatherers slowed to a trickle, and those who had come to worship and celebrate began to leave. I took supper in my room, though I could only force down a few mouthfuls, and I waited at the window until David appeared outside, flushed with wine and dancing, still half uncovered in the eyes of all. I left the window and made my way downstairs while he swayed through the streets, hopping and singing to himself.
I met him just inside the door, and with tremendous effort I pushed down the mountain of fury inside myself, kept it cool and contained, because any moment that I raised my voice I may as well count myself as lost. Any husband only listens to his wife in the moments before he may write her off as a harridan. When I spoke my voice was wry rather than infuriated, though I could not speak for my expression.
"How honoured was the king of Israel today," I said, and David did not jump at the sight of me but he did stop his dancing, weaving slightly on his feet. I leaned against the door posts to hide my trembling. David narrowed his eyes at my tone but did not yet speak, waiting to hear the charges before he defended himself. "How honoured," I said again, "to expose himself in front of the servant girls, as any vulgar man might do! Israel is fortunate to have such a king, indeed."
David reared back, the smell of holy wine and incense clinging to him, the smoke from the cooked meat infusing his clothing. "I was dancing before the LORD," he retorted, "The LORD who chose me above your father, and everyone in your family! He chose me to rule over Israel, and yes, so I dance in celebration. Yes, I am willing to look even more vulgar than this, if you say it vulgar, even to be humiliated in my own eyes. But if you will not honour me, then certainly the servant girls you mentioned will be happy to do so!"
He brushed past me, stumbling into the house, and I did not bother to follow him. No more rebuke could I give without bringing shame upon me as a nagging wife. I had done my duty, and he had ignored it, and I could do no more. Likely anyone who might have heard would think him in the right, for if the king of Israel declared that dancing half naked and leering at servants was the proper way to worship the LORD, then who was I, a lowly, childless woman, to challenge him?
The celebrations continued outside as the people made their way back to their homes. The men who had fought to return the Ark would stay until dawn before going back to their families, flush with wine and honour and gladness. David -- he would choose a more tractable companion for tonight, be it one of his wives, concubines, or one of the many servant girls I had so helpfully put into his line of sight, like flushing a hare before the hunters.
I walked back to my rooms in tightly-restrained irritation, my feet clipping along against the corridor floor, and once there I caught sight of my lyre, leaning against a chair. I remembered David, playing for my father to soothe his nightmares, before the madness took Father completely and drove him to his end. I had reached that point; my bitterness, my frustration, roiled inside me, and in a moment I saw myself, obsessing, unable to live or sleep or tear myself away from any wrongs -- real or imagined -- that David committed. Spending every waking our concerned for the shame of our household as he put himself and his personal commitments above the welfare of his wives and those whose status depended on his. Policing his words, his deeds, desperate to piece together any semblance of respect for us.
Or.
Or, I could let it go. I returned to the window and looked outside; the festivities continued below, but I ignored them and turned my face up to the heavens. The stars blinked, bright and ever-present and unchanging, and above them still was the LORD, watching.
My father had allowed himself to be poisoned by hate. I did not have to walk his path. If David wished to heap scorn upon himself and those connected with him, so be it. I was Michal, daughter of Saul and mother of none, and in that moment, I chose peace.
David did not return to my rooms, and never did again. Of all his wives, only I bore him no children, no sons to strengthen his line and no daughters to bolster his political alliances. When people spoke of the wives of the king, oftentimes my name slipped their minds altogether, and I did not try to remind them.
For a daughter and wife of kings, the best kind of peace is obscurity.
The servant found me in the gardens, tending to the tangle of grape vines over the far wall. "There's someone to see you," she told me, and I frowned. I never received visitors.
"Who is it?" I asked, dropping my handful of grapes into the basket I had hooked over one arm.
"It's Adriel, of Meholah," she said. "He is here with his five sons. He says his wife is dead."
This time the entire basket tumbled from my hands and fell to the ground; the grapes rolled along the dirt, but I paid them no heed. "Are you certain?" I asked, with a violence that startled the girl and caused her to fall back several paces.
"I -- he said so, but he is waiting," she said, stammering. "Or, I thought he said, but I might be mistaken."
I took a breath as the world swam around me, and forced myself to steady. I should not terrify the poor girl who had done nothing but bring me a message. "Take me to him," I said, and I folded my arms and gripped each elbow in the opposite hand so I would not reach out and clutch at her.
We walked through the palace to an unused room where wives might bring visitors, as they were not permitted into the private residential quarters without permission. There I saw Adriel, the husband of my sister, and it had been a decade since we met but he had aged twice that. His clothes hung on his frame, his face gaunt, and his eyes skewered me with the depth of his sadness.
He sat surrounded by four boys, one more resting in his arms, scarcely more than an infant, red-faced and scowling as he slept. The other four regarded me with shock; the oldest boy hung back, arms crossed over his chest, but the second-youngest inched forward with eyes wide, one finger in his mouth.
"You look so much like your sister," Adriel said in a choked voice, and the boys looked away, guiltily. "This last birth -- it was difficult, and I nearly lost them both, but in the end, the LORD was satisfied with only my wife, leaving the child here with me."
The air stuck in my chest like a knife, the tip broken off and burrowing its way toward my heart. I had not seen my sister since I visited her, not yet heavy with the oldest of the boys. Circumstances had prevented our meeting again and again and now we never would. "I see," I said at last, and somehow by the LORD's mercy I did not weep. The boys shuffled but otherwise stood still, their features a mix of Adriel's grave handsomeness and my sister's laughing eyes, though of course now they did not smile. "And what of the children?"
Adriel swallowed. "I love my sons as I loved my wife, but I cannot --" He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, and let out several short breaths. "They need a mother. I am often away, and I could leave them to the care of the servants but they -- Merab, she was always so attentive with them. She never let them be raised by their nurses, and she wouldn't want me to turn them over now. They deserve a mother."
He met my gaze then, and I saw at once the sorrow that would drive him to such a question, and his shame in putting such an imposition upon me. I looked at the boys, at the myriad of expressions on their faces from grief to anger to confusion, and lastly at the sleeping infant who would never know the woman who bore him.
I thought of Chileab, second son of David and only son of Abigail, whom illness had taken when her son was just a child, and who now sat quiet and forgotten by nearly all in the household. I thought of David's other sons -- some ten now, with two more wives expecting at the moment -- and how they grew up spoiled and petulant, some demanding like Amnon and others vain like Absalom.
"And what do the children think?" I asked.
The oldest boy, with thick brows drawn heavy across his forehead, spoke up with a burst of bravery. "You are not our mother."
"No," I said, and I lowered myself to my knees, skirts pooling at my feet. "But I knew her well and loved her dearly, and we could share stories between us until she lives firm in our hearts."
The boy hesitated, and his jaw trembled but I saw in his eyes the desperate pride of a boy who must be a man for the sake of his brothers, and I did not press him. I touched his arm like I might a grown man who had earned my trust. "Whatever you choose, your brothers are lucky to have you," I told him, and he straightened his shoulders with pride.
"I will take them, if they will have me," I said, looking up at Adriel, whose face crumpled with relief. "I will raise them as my sister's and my own, and love them as such. I have no children of my own, so you need not worry that I will view them as competition." The smallest boy yet standing, perhaps two years of age, shuffled forward another pace until his fingers caught the edge of my skirt.
The oldest boy glanced at his brothers, then hissed out a breath. "Would we be princes?"
"Yes," I said, and that set them to whispering and nudging. "You are the grandsons of kings. It is time you came to your birthright."
"Ought we to ask permission of the king?" Adriel asked, but his gaze flicked about the vast, empty room.
"No," I said. "I will not trouble him." I stood and gave Adriel a smile, though my heart ached. I would say my prayers for Merab later, when I had the solitude and liberty to do so properly. "You must stay a while," I told him. "It will make an easier transition for your sons if you are here."
"I thank you," Adriel said with a small bow, and he looked down at his oldest, whose mouth still remained set in a thin line. "You do not need to call her Mama," he said, laying a hand on the boy's hair, which curled about his ears. "But your aunt is family, and what is it we have taught you?"
"We cherish family and the LORD," the boy muttered, grudgingly, and shuffled his foot against the floor. "For by following one, no dishonour will come to the other."
"Exactly," Adriel said, and at last the boy's lips twitched in the shadow of a smile.
The two smaller boys took my hands, and together, we walked out into the gardens, the perfume of the new spring roses heavy in the breeze. The oldest cast me a suspicious look, so like the one his mother had given me when I told her I had not touched her bracelets, before steering his next brother away from stumbling into a decorative vase.
I would never have a son. I would never rise in status among my husband's wives; I may as well be a servant, though now they respected my age because it cost them nothing. And yet -- as the sun rose overhead, warming the stones beneath my feet, the trees casting dappled shadows on the boys as they darted into the garden, gasping at the fountain, large enough for the two smallest to swim in should they wish -- circumstances had not robbed me of my life. I had my breath; I had strength in my limbs, and while I had caught sight of the first grey hairs at my temple, while my smile had hardened and my resting expression lost its girlish wonder, I had many years ahead. And now, for the first time since Abner turned Palti away at Bahurim, I need not spend them alone.
The boys darted through the paths in pursuit of a butterfly while the oldest sighed and thumped after them, pretending not to be drawn in by the chase. Beside me, Adriel held the infant, who woke with a start and stared out at the world with wide eyes.
One of the boys darted back, stopping in front of me. "Mama could never catch us," he said, his words tumbling loose as he spoke in a rush, likely before his courage failed him. "We run ever so fast. I bet you can't catch us either."
They say a mother is as young as her children; I imagined it could not be much different for aunts. I laughed and picked up my skirts, looping the fabric firm around my fingers to free my feet and ankles. "We shall see," I warned him, and he took off, shrieking, scattering a flock of sparrows up into the skies.