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Chapter Text

I first saw my husband while the crowds cheered outside and my father raged within. I only caught a glimpse of him through the window, because of course my father would not allow us down to the square to greet him and his band of warriors, recently victorious in battle yet again. Throngs filled the streets as the people cheered and shouted the chant that so quickly brought the anger into my father's heart -- the words that my siblings and I were forbidden even from murmuring, but which dug their fingers into my chest and refused to let go.

Saul has killed his thousands, and David his ten thousands!

"What must he look like, a man who has killed so many?" I had whispered to my sister the night before, as we lay in the darkness. Tomorrow the warriors would return triumphant, David at their head. The revels had already begun.

It rankled me that David had lived among our household for some time -- since the day he slew the great Philistine Goliath -- but that my sister and I had never seen him. The women in our household resided, of course, in a separate part of the palace, far away from the men and their talk of war, and so despite David's connection to the House of Saul, I still could not pick him out of a crowd for I had nothing but the rapturous descriptions of rumour to sketch his face.

"Father always sends us away when he comes to the palace to play his lyre or make reports," Merab complained, puckering her smooth forehead. "He must be very fearsome indeed, enough that Father fears he would startle well-bred ladies. Perhaps he has a face like an ogre!"

"And the body of a bear," I rejoined, feeling very wicked, for of course David had done so many mighty deeds for the people of Judah, but girls will be silly when there is no man to reprove them.

"I shouldn't care so much about either of those things, so long as he has the foot of a horse," Merab said, tossing her head, and I squealed and shushed her and threatened to smother her with a pillow lest a servant hear and report such lewd talk from the daughter of the king. Merab, of course, knew of no such things herself, but she liked to talk as though she did. It helped her delineate the years between us, but she did not need to do so. To me Merab was always old and wise, and I myself so very young and foolish.

Eventually we called for a truce and lay in the tangle of bedclothes, trying to stifle our giggles without much success. "But there must be something wrong," I said to Merab, leaning on one elbow. "For he is unmarried, and why would a man with such prowess on the battlefield not have a wife to welcome him when he returns?"

"Perhaps he has such prowess precisely because he has no wife," said Merab. "After all, a fire unquenched must find somewhere to burn safely --"

I struck at her with a pillow again, though we subsided soon for fear of discovery. "A great warrior should find himself a wife to share his nights as the battles fill his days," I said. Merab rolled her eyes at me; many had called me stubborn, but I did not see the fault in persisting when I knew myself to be correct. "Even Jonathan will one day consummate his marriage, Father says, for it is time for him to have a son."

"Oh, well, Jonathan," said Merab in a tone I did not understand. "Yes, I'm sure their union will be fruitful."

True, our eldest brother did not show much interest fulfilling the second stage of his marriage, preferring to distinguish himself on the battlefield in feats well beyond the reach of his younger brothers. I could only assume Merab meant to dig at Jonathan's lack of political ambition as well as his lackadaisical attitude toward love, for he alone of all our brothers said he had no interest in the throne. He merely wished for a lance in his hand and a horse to ride, and life would complete itself for him.

Jonathan had taken David as his sworn companion soon after David entered our house, but he would not talk of him with us. "He is not for little girls and their prattling," Jonathan had said when I asked him, waving a hand. "He is the greatest man I have ever seen, and one whom I am proud to call my friend, and that is all he ever need be to you."

My brother could be so selfish; such was the problem with boys. Sisters would never be such misers, if only because we loved to torment each other with information.

"You speak more than one who has a casual interest," Merab said, fixing me with a sharp look. "Don't tell me you have fallen for the shepherd-turned-warrior without even seeing his face."

"No," I said, my cheeks growing hot. I was not so impulsive, nor so stupid. "I merely find him intriguing. And Father will hide him from us, which only makes me curious."

Merab grinned then, and waggled her eyebrows in a most improper manner. "Then tomorrow, let us sneak out to the window and watch him as he returns. We can get a glimpse of your would-be lover, see if he's as frightful as his reputation declares him to be."

I nearly hit her again, but in the end I did not, for I wished to see David very dearly, if only to set my gnawing sense of inquisitiveness to rest. Merab fell asleep soon after, and I watched her for a moment, her dark hair shining in the moonlight. My older sister was a beauty, sought by men from several cities; Father would choose a good husband for her, a strong warrior who would do their family honour.

As for me -- the youngest, with very little status left to attach to my name -- I would have to content myself with being given to some up and coming man with whom Father wished to curry favour. I did not resent my fate, as I had known it since I was old enough to understand my tutor's explanations, but as Merab would say, it would harm no one if I were to examine the banquet before committing to the feast, just so long as I did not touch a single dish.

And so, the next day, we crept away from our study of music when the roar of the crowds reached the palace and ran to the nearest window. Men and women danced in the streets in a most alarming fashion, crowded such that even if Father had sent all the palace soldiers in an attempt to chase them away, they would have been overrun by sheer force. The air was a wash of flowers as people tossed petals from their windows, and soon the soldiers entered the main square.

I clutched Merab's hand in mine, our fingers slippery with sweat. The soldiers stood alike in armour, and while not all wore their helms, most had the same dark, curly hair of the men of Judah, and I could not tell which might be which. I searched for the tallest, the most formidable, but half the company fit that description.

At last the crowd's roar took shape in the form of words, calling out a single name. My heart jumped in my chest, and Merab took the opportunity to lean in close and hiss, "You are in love with him!" in an entirely unnecessary manner, for which I punished her by reaching over and giving her a hard pinch in the side.

The soldiers parted, and one man stepped forward. My breath caught in my throat, for he was not the enormous, loathsome giant I had half-expected. The man who strode into the gap stood tall and proud, but though his muscles shining bronze in the sunlight they were not oversized, and his hair was a pleasing copper, framing a youthful face. He looked perhaps a decade younger than our brother Jonathan, and he had the same manner of prettiness about the eyes which struck a girl through like a spear.

"Well, well," said Merab in a low voice, squeezing my hand tight enough that my fingers ached. "Perhaps now we know why Father kept us away from him, though the reasons are somewhat different than we thought."

He acknowledged the crowd with a wave of his hand, and gradually the torrent of shouting faded. David stood tall, his hair flashing auburn. "I thank you for the honour of allowing me to protect you against the Philistines," he called out in a voice that sent a shiver up my arms. I hoped my sleeves hid the rise of gooseflesh, lest Merab tease me until the day I died. "But the true glory of today's battle goes to the LORD, and to Saul, our King."

The cheers began anew. "He is modest as well," Merab said. "Not a bad trait in a man, I must say, quite different from most of those who would never take a breath while blowing their own trumpets."

She spoke with a speculative bent that caused me to press my lips together, for of course as the eldest daughter, Merab would come first in any marriage alliance. At the moment Father feared David and wished to keep him far away on the battlefield, but should he change his mind -- should Father wish to woo him, to buy his loyalty through an auspicious marriage -- then he would look to Merab, not myself. Merab tilted her head to one side and twirled her skirt in her fingers.

"He has a fine countenance," Merab pronounced at last. "I'm sure he would make anyone a good husband."

I had lost my taste for peering through windows. "I fear we will be caught if we linger," I said, and Merab raised an eyebrow at me but did not argue as I slipped away back into the room. The cause of my sudden reticence was no doubt obvious even to someone half as keen as my sister, but she did not chide me, and in fact indulged my petulant manner as she often did, for which I thanked her. By the time the sun bled across the horizon, I found myself much mollified.

That evening at dinner, Father reclined on his couch, his chin on his hands, eyes darkened with thought. He ignored the harpist and the lute player he had called to serenade us, and we ate in silence, doing our best even to reduce the noise of the water pitchers against the floor as we sought not to offend him. Our brothers were out in the field, leaving only Merab and myself to entertain him; without the presence of his sons, Father could be snappish and impatient.

At last Father straightened and called for a servant. "Bring me David," he said. "Tell him to join me in the main hall. I have something of import to ask him." Once the servant departed, Father fixed us both with his keen gaze. "My daughters, I would have you join me."

Merab and I dared not exchange glances; we merely stood and followed him to the audience chamber, where we stood at his side, silent and obedient, as David entered the room.

In person, his beauty struck me even deeper. I felt it resonate within me like a note plucked on a harp string, though our eyes did not meet. David gazed upon our father, the king, with a steadfast devotion that any ruler might thank the LORD to receive.

"You have fought well for me," Father said. "What manner of reward do you wish for such a service?"

"I ask for none and wish for less, my king," said David most prettily, and he did not simper and smile the way some of Father's ministers did when they wished to appear modest while doing the opposite. His eyes glowed with the embers of sincerity, and I felt myself most taken in. "I only wish to serve you in return for the many kindnesses you have shown me, and to our nation."

Father waved a hand as one might shoo a troublesome fly. "Still. My men tell me such tales of your valour that I would think them exaggerated were they not on the tongues of all and sundry from here to Canaan. You must have something."

"Truly, I require nothing," David said again. He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed in supplication. "My greatest desire is to continue to serve you, and that you have most graciously granted me."

Father gave him a quelling look, and David fell silent. "Behold," he said, and stretched out a hand to Merab, who did not miss a beat, but stepped forward to meet him. "My oldest daughter Merab. I shall give you to her as a wife. But be a warrior for me, and wage the wars of the LORD."

He continued thus, telling David that their wedding would occur the next week, on a night that Samuel, the prophet, had declared to be auspicious in the eyes of the LORD. Merab's expression did not change, nor did she look at me, and I found I could not listen to Father's words and keep my countenance steady at the same time, and so I allowed the speech to wash over me like waves on a beach.

At last Father wound down, and I drew myself out of my self-pitying reverie. No one seemed to notice my departure from the conversation; indeed no one looked at me at all, but I soon turned to David, bracing myself for the expression of gratitude that would light his face like a candle in the dark.

I did not find it. Instead he stared at Father with something akin to horror, his jaw hanging. "My king," he said at last, and he did not take a step back but twitched as though he might wish to. "I cannot accept such a gift as this. Who am I, and what is my life, or my father's family in Israel, that I should be son-in-law to the king?"

To a stranger, Merab did not react, but I knew my sister, and I saw the slight tension in her muscles as clearly as though she flinched from a physical blow. In that moment I forgot my jealousy, the gnawing bitterness inside me, and thought only of my sister, offered as a gift with one hand and tossed aside with the other. She raised her chin, staring out into the room proudly, but I knew that in her heart, she would be screaming.

Father narrowed his eyes. "I do not offer such a precious thing as my daughter to you lightly," he said. "Nor would I do so to one who was unworthy."

"I do not speak from a sense of false modesty, my king," said David. "I speak from my heart. I could not ever hope to live up to such an offering. I would do you, your daughter, and myself a disservice. I ask that instead I be allowed to serve you without reward, as only then might my loyalty to you remain unquestioned."

Father paused a moment, then nodded. "So be it," he said. "You may join my sons on the battlefield tomorrow, if you so desire."

"Thank you, my king," David said with evident relief. Perhaps it was a blessing that he would not be son-in-law to the king of Israel, if he could not control his expressions so. He was a man but so like a boy, his face an unrolled scroll, easily read.

Father dismissed us all after that, and Merab and I returned to our rooms in silence. Merab said nothing until she sent the servants away; then she turned, strode across the room, lifted the copper plate which held a pitcher of water, and flung it hard into the room. It struck the wall and rolled away, clattering across the floor until it finally fell still, and I thought of Father, hurling spears through tapestries in the depths of his rages. Father and Merab were alike in the strength of their temper.

"Leave me," Merab said. Her hands remained at her sides, fingers clenched until they gnarled like that of an old woman's. When I hesitated, she took up the pitcher, and I fled for fear that she would throw it at my head.

That night I wept for my sister, for the humiliation that David had unknowingly thrust upon her. The next day at breakfast, Father announced that her marriage would proceed as planned, save for the bridegroom.

"And who will it be this time?" Merab asked. She plucked a grape from the platter nearest her divan, holding it so tightly between her fingers that it burst. She set it down and wiped the stain from her dress without a word.

"Adriel, the Meholathite," said Father.

Son of Barzillai, in alliance with Father. A consolation gift to one already in his service, not to gain the allegiance of an enemy; by all accounts a good man, solid and strong and not unkind. She could certainly have a worse match.

Merab swallowed the last of her wine, and did not speak for several heartbeats after. "I will have my ladies make me ready," she said at last. "Thank you for the honour, Father."

"Adriel is a good man," Father said. "I think you will serve him well. Do you approve, my daughter?"

Merab took a long breath. She could refuse, of course; no marriage would proceed without the bride's consent, and Merab could be capricious when she so chose. But no, she merely smiled and said, "I do."

That night, Merab lay with her back to me, blankets pulled tight over her body. I watched the rise and fall of her shoulders for some time before I could no longer stand it, and I touched her side. "Merab--"

"We have entered into the marriage contract," Merab said. "They have signed the ketubah. It is done." I heard the pause in her voice, however, and I waited; sure enough, soon she hissed through her teeth. "The bride price is such that he might pay it tomorrow without difficulty. Father wishes to rid himself of this embarrassment as quickly as possible, before the whispers start."

Adriel brought the agreed-upon price to Father two days later, and I waited with Merab and her handmaidens that night for the groom to arrive. As they consummated the marriage, I could not help thinking of David, whom it might have been. I mourned for my sister, for her sense of shame at being passed off to another man so quickly, but by the same token, my heart fluttered in my chest. It was a foolish hope, of course, but it would not die, not until all other avenues closed themselves off to me.

Later, I walked with Merab to the place where Adriel stayed, and she squeezed my hand and did not look quite so dour as the procession reached the house. They sat together at the feast, and if Adriel was older and not so beautiful as David, he nonetheless looked at her with love and gratitude in his eyes. Perhaps that was better after all; a man who accepted a gift knowing he was unworthy did everyone a greater service than a man who embarrassed the giver and the gift itself by refusing it.

My sister left me for her husband's home city after the feasting ended. Afterward I sat by the window, staring out at the stars and the glittering of torches throughout the city streets, and wondered what husband Father would see fit to choose for me.

Chapter Text

The days dragged long without my sister. I saw to the goings-on of the house without excitement, made my trips down to the lower town to give out bread to the poor and managed to keep my smile, but could not lose myself in the charity as I once could. Merab always had the right words to say to bring a smile to the faces of a young mother with children whose empty bellies made them cry at night; I fumbled and often fled.

My mother noted my melancholy, on the occasions when I saw her in private, and she sat with me and ran a comb through my hair as the birds continued their incessant racket outside the window. "She will be happy," Mother said, her delicate fingers soft against my neck. "Abel-Meholah is a beautiful place, so I've heard, and Adriel will treat her well."

"I miss her already," I said, for I did, even though she kicked in her sleep and often stole the best olives from the plate before I had the chance to eat one. "And I fear my own future."

"You need not," Mother said, sweeping my hair over my shoulder. "The LORD has good plans for you, I'm certain. Your father will see them done."

Days passed, and weeks, and still the wars raged on. Every day messengers brought tales of new valour from the field; every day the name of David filled the air like the blast of a trumpet. I watched as Father's hands clenched each time he received the news, but it would not do to show jealousy and so he merely smiled. He sent food -- breads, meat, fruit -- to the men on the front, and more than once he rode out to the front lines to join them on the eve of a particularly fierce battle.

And still I thought of David, the man who captured the hearts of the nation, including my brother's. One day Jonathan returned for a brief time to give Father tidings, and I sat near the edge of the room and listened to their talk. Jonathan glanced at me once or twice while embellishing a tale of a man who took a sword to the stomach, to see if I would faint at the descriptions of blood and screams, but I raised my chin and refused to be cowed. Eventually Jonathan rolled his eyes, but he did make a pet of me when I was younger, and I knew him to be a good man despite his impatience.

"I wish you had seen David, Father," Jonathan said, kneeling respectfully, but his hands flew everywhere as he spoke. "If I did not know better, I would think him a lion in a man's form. When he enters the battlefield and the men roar his name, the enemy quakes."

"I am fortunate to have such a warrior on my side," said Father in an ominous sort of tone. The servants in the room drew themselves at attention, ready in case Father should throw something at one of them, but it was a passing shadow, nothing more. "But the tide goes well?"

"It does," Jonathan said with a decisive sweep of his hand. "They cannot touch us. We gain new ground every day. And David looks very well, which of course is all some people care about," he said, a dig at me, but he did not mean it truly. I tossed my head and pretended I did not hear him.

Father gave me a ruminative look, but soon their talk turned to tribute, and I grew disinterested. Jonathan continued to tease me for the remainder of his stay, until I threatened that I would take up Merab's mantle and throw pots at his head. He laughed, then bent and kissed my forehead with his hands on my shoulders.

"I only tease you because you are my sister," he said, giving me a look far more solemn than was his wont. "But Michal, David is not looking for a wife, and even if he were, he would not seek one here. He is a humble man, but proud, too; he would not like to be so indebted to a man whose bride price he could never hope to pay, and to be given one low enough that he might meet it would only seem worse."

I looked away so I would not scold him, though the urge rose up in my chest. I did not need Jonathan to protect me with talk of bride prices and honour; I knew that I, the younger sister, could never command a husband greater than Merab's. A minor general or leader of a smaller city allied with Father would be the best I could hope to gain.

The next month, the warriors returned to the city, David among them. Again I stood by the window and watched him, red hair gleaming in the sun, his arms strong and proud and solid. I could not decide whether I desired to speak with him, or whether the sound of his voice, softened in my presence instead of booming through the square, would overwhelm me.

After dinner one evening, Father bade me stay with him for company, and he called upon David to play the lyre for us. I had heard tales of his playing from Jonathan, who by his words made it out to be akin to the songs of angels. I settled myself with my skirts tucked modestly over my ankles, and while first David demurred out of modesty, soon Father prevailed. A servant brought a lyre, and David settled himself at Father's feet and began to play.

The music curled around the room like the scent and smoke from the incense, drawing itself into my lungs and through my limbs until it suffused me with a warm glow. I understood why Father called David to play for him on the nights when the spirits tormented him and would not let him sleep, for everyone in the room fell quiet and listened. Jonathan, nearest David on the floor, leaned back against the wall with a dreamy expression.

At last David finished, and the final notes hung in the air while I -- and likely others -- fought to remember how to breathe; while he played, the mundane acts of drawing air into my lungs seemed unimportant, unnecessary, even. He smiled, ducked his head, and handed the lyre back to the servant, who withdrew silently.

Father appeared sated, leaning back, and he called for some wine. I stood and moved to the back of the room, fetching a goblet, so I might have a moment to compose myself. I felt certain my cheeks flamed red, and it would not do to appear so in front of so many people. I wished for Merab's presence, that her mocking might irritate me into a semblance of composure.

"May I help you with that?" asked a voice at my elbow, and I nearly flung the goblet over my head in surprise, for I knew that voice. A frisson ran through me to my toes, but I merely turned and passed him the pitcher. "I hope you'll forgive me speaking to you," David said, and I cast my gaze down and held the goblet steady while he poured. "I -- the servants, some of them spoke to me. They told me your father wishes me to become his son-in-law."

My hands trembled. If Merab were here she would be digging her elbow into my side, and I felt her absence so keenly my arm actually twitched to nudge her away before I caught myself. "But my sister has already been married to another man."

"Not your sister," David said, and I swallowed hard. "I told him I could not hope to become his son-in-law, not when I am the youngest son of a shepherd, with nothing to my name that your father has not already granted me."

My hands steadied, and I looked up at him. His gaze held me firm, his eyes piercing me through like an arrow through my breast. A small flicker of rebellion kindled itself in my heart. "Surely you will not shame me by sending me away," I said, and were anyone else around to hear they would gasp at my temerity. "There are no more Adriels of Meholah to take me if you reject me. I know not whom my father would choose in your stead, but I know I would not wish it."

My heartbeat increased to a frantic pounding. For me to have spoken thus, David would be well within his rights to chide me and report my insolence to my father. But I held his gaze, and David did not chide me; instead he drew in a sharp breath. "But I have nothing to offer," he said. "It would shame you, and me, if I could not give proper tribute for my wife."

Madness, all; it swirled inside me like a storm whipped up sand and carried it over the desert, and yet I did not flinch. "There are other ways to provide a gift than coins or livestock," I said, an idea tickling the corner of my mind. "If my father settled on a price that would appease your honour -- what would you say?"

David's throat moved. "I think it is no light thing, to become son-in-law to the king. I think it would be more fitting for you to have someone of noble birth and bearing."

"A bride may choose her husband. Would my own feelings mean nothing?" I asked, and across the room Father watched us with keen eyes that belied his lazy posture, but he did not send anyone to interrupt us. In fact, he tipped his head back in a manner that could, perhaps, be taken as a nod, if I might be prevailed upon to trust my own judgement.

"If I am to repay your father for such a gift, it may not be with nothing but my service," David said, and oh, woe the pride of men to make them stubborn so. "I offer that freely. It must be something equal to your worth, and that, I'm afraid, is more than I can ever hope to provide."

I pressed my lips together, for what else could I do in the face of such a thing, a compliment and refusal both? I could not convince David to throw away his principles, for I would not build a house on such shifting ground as that, let alone a marriage. However, neither could I think of anything to say that would not come off as petty and womanish, so instead I nodded and returned with the goblet of wine for my father.

"Any interesting conversations for you of late?" Father asked as I handed him his wine.

"Not as such," I said, and I sat myself by his side. "What might a man of such humble roots offer to a king?"

Father waved a hand. "It is beside the point. I have no desire for gold or jewels, not when I might find chests of both any time I please."

"But you cannot give me away for nothing," I said. Even if David were to accept, such a move would be even more insulting than the low price placed on Merab. Father raised one eyebrow but I stayed firm.

"No indeed," Father said, and I allowed a small slump in my shoulders. "Daughter, my servants tell me you love him. If this is so, then I will find a way to appease everyone's honour."

My throat closed and I could not answer. Love him, they'd said! Not 'favour him' or 'look on him with kindness'. What sort of talk had the servants been sharing, and what had I done to prompt it? I stared at Father, too shocked by the statement to remember how to form words, but my expression must have informed him for he smiled.

"You must be tired," he said, and I rose at the dismissal. I could not look back for fear of what I would see -- not just from Father or David, but I shook with the thought that everyone in the room had somehow intuited our conversations -- and so I left as quickly as might be done without looking as though I were fleeing.

Some days later, one of my servants slipped into the room where I sat, practicing my singing. "The king has announced a bride price for you," she said when I motioned for her to speak, her hands fluttering at her throat. "One hundred Philistine foreskins!"

"And who is meant to pay such a high price?" I demanded, aghast, for the collection of one hundred foreskins would surely mean the death of any man.

My servant smiled, though she did her best to hide it behind her hand. She was an older woman, her daughters married years ago, and had always looked upon my romantic prospects with the eye of a vulture. I did not mind, but today had no patience for teasing. "Why, David, of course! He's a mighty warrior, and what better way to win the king's daughter than to avenge himself upon his enemies?"

I had begun to stand, but I sank back down into my chair. "He cannot mean to do it," I said, feeling faint. I held out a hand, and she placed a cup of water in my trembling fingers. "He'll be killed!"

"The men say he fights like ten men for the king's sake alone," she said, holding my hand steady. "What more might he do for the love of a pretty girl like you?"

I could not seek out my father without an audience, and so I said nothing until we met at supper. He had been of a melancholy humour recently, quick to withdraw into one of his dark fits, but today he ate with cheer, holding up his goblet for the servants to refill his wine. I ate, though the food tasted as dust in my mouth, until I could no longer bear waiting for him to bring it up.

"You're trying to have him killed," I said to Father, though I could not tell what possessed me to make such a claim. I had better control of my temper than Merab, but I had been sorely tested. "Why else would you send him out into battle on such an errand?"

Father merely chuckled, the way he did when he thought women foolish but himself too polite to say so. "Because he is already a great warrior, and with the proper motivation, he has the potential to be so much more. And you wished me to find a bride price that would be within his means, yet would not insult him. Who insults him now? I with my demand, or you for your lack of faith in his ability to meet it?"

I turned away from him, shaking with anger once again. I could not imagine what Father meant by all of this, save that the demons had descended upon him again despite the jovial nature of his mood. "I am going to the temple," I told him once I trusted myself to speak. "I will pray to the LORD for his safe return."

The heat pressed against me like a living thing as I left the palace with my maidens and headed for the temple. Insects buzzed in the trees, so thick and loud that my skull seemed to resonate with the force of it. We walked through the streets, the dust rising beneath my feet, and I ignored the cries of the merchants who called out to me, the mingling scents from the food-sellers that wafted through the air. I paused only once outside my favourite baker's, and inhaled the thick, heady aroma of bread fresh from the fire, but even then I did not stop for long.

My maidens glanced at the wares as we passed, and I promised myself that if I felt my prayers reached the heavens, I would stop on the way home to buy a basket of fresh figs, and split them among the women. We might sit under the shade of a tree and pass them between us, licking the sticky juice from our fingers and laughing. This brought my resolve to new heights, and I lifted my skirts so they would not trail in the dust and increased my speed.

Once at the temple, I instructed my maidens to wait outside while I knelt at the altar and struggled to find the words. The stories told of countless women who prayed to the LORD in heartfelt, eloquent ways that stirred His pity and moved Him to reward their piety, but I could think of nothing. No pretty phrases with which to please the LORD, nothing but the raw desperation that moved in my blood like a poison. I bent my head, breathed deep the smell of incense and the sharp tang of the burnt offerings, and closed my eyes.

I did not pray with words but in feeling: I prayed for David, safe on the battlefield; I prayed for the LORD to spare his life -- not even to bring him back victorious but just to bring him home, even if he failed at his task and the two of us separated forever. I prayed for Father's jealousy to fade, for his outbursts of wrath to melt away like frost under the morning sun; for him to understand that David wanted nothing but to serve him.

I prayed until I lost all feeling in my knees and my lungs filled with incense. I lingered long after I ran out of prayers, hoping to feel a sense of the LORD's presence, some hint -- a voice, or a shiver in my skin, something -- that would indicate my requests had been heard, but slowly my muscles stiffened and my maidens outside would be growing restless. I climbed to my feet, my limbs protesting the movement, and headed back outside.

I did not forget the figs.

I woke some days later to the peal of trumpets, and my handmaid shaking me awake. Under normal circumstances I would scold her for doing so, but hope kindled in my breast and I clutched her arm instead. "What news?" I asked her. "Has David returned?"

"He's returned," she said, her smile wide. My nails dug crescents in her skin wrinkled. "And he has brought not one, but two hundred Philistine foreskins."

I collapsed back against the pillows, my hand pressed to my throat. "You are joking."

"My lady, I wouldn't joke about something like that!" she exclaimed. "Imagine, joking about foreskins! They say he brought them in sackcloth, dripping with blood. The king had his servants count them as soon as they arrived, and the whole court is in shock. He has granted permission for David to become your husband. They say he will sign the ketubah today."

My heart shivered in my chest like olive leaves when the wind picked up before a storm. "When will he send for me?"

She smiled, took my hand and squeezed it. "I have been asked to make you ready."

Time passed in a blur. I spoke with Father but could not recall a single word afterward; my maidens bathed me, perfumed my hair with oils, and dressed me in a flowing, modest gown of soft white linen. I knelt on the floor in the midst of a circle of my maidens while the torches burned around us and the air thickened with the scent of incense. We did not speak, though on occasion a few of the younger girls whispered to one another before the matron hushed them. My mind raced; I fought for control, for calm, but I could not maintain my outward composure and inner peace at the same time. For the sake of propriety I chose the former, and prayed that the LORD would understand my failure at the latter.

The raucous cheers of the men alerted me to the incoming presence of my husband long before the wedding party reached the door. They shouted, called his name and sang his praises, and above it all rang his laughter, honest and open and happy. Perhaps, having acquitted himself of the bride price on his own, having proven himself in such a show of valour, my husband no longer felt the need to fear his newfound place as son in law to the king. I could not know; I would not ask.

At last they arrived at the house. "Here is the groom, come to seek his bride," called David in a clear, proud voice. "Does she wait for him?"

"She does," I replied, and my voice did not tremble. I pressed my hands together in my lap. "Will my husband show himself?"

The door opened, and there stood David, resplendent in the lamplight, surrounded by ten of his closest companions. I did not look for Jonathan's face among them, although the temptation pressed me sorely; while my triumph was strong, I did not wish to dwell on it -- or him -- at this time. "I am here to take my wife," David said, stepping through the doorway. He held out his hand; I took it, his grip firm, and he raised me to my feet. My heart did its best to climb out my throat, but I pressed my lips together and held myself steady.

Oh, how I missed my sister! I had sat with her likewise the night that Adriel came to claim her; I wished she could have done so with me.

"Come, my wife," David said, raising my hand to his lips and brushing the faintest of kisses across my knuckles. Together, we left the circle of friends and companions, and made our way to the bedchamber.

With the others celebrating behind us in the rest of the house, the door safely closed between us, David laid his hand against my cheek. "I did not speak lightly when I said I felt unworthy of the honour," he said.

"Of becoming my husband, or son in law to my father?" I asked, our proximity driving me to a point of temerity I would never have dared before.

David chuckled. "May I not be referring to both?" he asked. "For they are different privileges, to be sure, but both far above anything I should have thought myself capable. And yet, as I have sworn to serve your father and the nation of Israel, so, too, do I promise myself to you as husband."

"And to you, as loving wife," I said. "I, for one, have no such misgivings about my new husband as he seems to have."

David smiled, bright an radiant as the sun, and leaned his face down to kiss me.

Chapter Text

We celebrated the consummation of our marriage for three days before moving to our new house outside the palace grounds, a gift from Father to mark the beginning of our new life together. We saw no one but each other; even the servants who brought us food left the meals outside our door, knocking against the wood before slipping away without interference. The air hung redolent with incense and the trees beyond our window with a fragrance sharp enough to leave me heady; the very wine I sipped tasted sweeter, richer, now that I had my husband. Grapes burst on my tongue with a new flavour, and the faintest caress of breeze against my skin left me in shivers.

I mapped the planes of his body with my hands as I never dared even in my dreams, learning the curve of his muscles with my palms, tracing the lines of scars across his chest and biceps with awed fingers. "How did you get this?" I would ask him, drunk on the freedom to do so, to see the marks of war upon his skin and to be privy to the information behind it. Previously, only the other men in his army would have known these stories.

"I deflected a spear," David would say, laughing as my eyes widened in fear despite having him safe in bed with me. "This one I hesitate to tell you, lest you laugh at me for being a foolish warrior. I thought myself quick enough to dodge an arrow fired at me, but instead of ducking out of the way, I threw myself straight into its path. It is the blessing of the LORD that the arrow itself was poorly fashioned, or it would have pierced my heart."

I splayed my fingers over his chest, the ridged scar tissue smooth beneath my hand. "You have seen so much," I said in wonder. "I only wish I needn't fear for your safety when you leave at last."

David bent and kissed me between my brows. "You needn't fear," he said. "I fight for your father, and the LORD is with him. As long as we walk with the LORD, He will protect us."

It would be blasphemy to suggest otherwise, of course, and I allowed myself to be comforted. At any rate, I could no more argue when he kissed me than I could count the stars, though Merab and I had spent many a night lying together in the grass with our faces turned up to the heavens, attempting to do just that. The touch of David's mouth on mine wrested all my thoughts from me, and I did not protest.

For his part, David awoke me to a knowledge of my self that I had not thought possible. He had the hands of both a soldier and a shepherd; rough and callused from the handling of the tools of war, but gentle and skilled from years of tending to young animals.

Together in our house, under cover of darkness, by the flicker of torches, in the light of the setting and rising suns, my husband knew me, and I my husband.

At last the day came for David to return to war, as I knew and dreaded it would. A good wife's place was not to keep her husband in a stranglehold at home while other men went off to do my father's bidding, but I could not withhold my tears. David did not scold me, but he held me by the shoulders and tipped my head up with one finger beneath my chin.

"The messengers will send word," he said, the morning sun turning his hair to burnished copper. I still held the trace of his caresses in the darkened marks against my skin; after he left I would press my fingers to them to feel the twinge of pain and remember our closeness. "I will have them tell you that I am well."

I nodded, blinking through my blurring vision. Many things could happen in the days between a messenger leaving the camp and returning to my father, but I could not ask of anything more. "Thank you," I said. We had only been married for a few short days, but I felt the thread of connection as strongly as though someone had cleaved our very souls together.

"I will visit you when I am able," David said. He twirled a curl of my hair around his finger and gave a tug; the casual intimacy of the gesture at once thrilled me and moved me near to tears again. "Your father the king has told me I need not return to battle at all, a kindness which I of course could not accept, but I think it should not be outside my power to visit you when the army is called home."

I drew myself up to my full height, which only brought the top of my head level with David's brow. "I should certainly hope so," I said, buoyed by our togetherness to a level of effrontery perhaps considered undesirable in a truly modest wife but which I had rather shamefully become accustomed. "If I hear that my brother has stolen all your attention, I will have something to say to you."

His eyes went wide, then he laughed, full and joyous, and kissed me until I trembled. "Quite so, my wife," David said. "I am only sorry I caused you any doubt."

"That's better," I said, reckless and foolish, but he only smiled.

He turned to leave, then David hesitated and came back, catching my fingers in his. "If I may --" He withdrew a small knife from his belt, then freed a curl from my loose braid. I nodded, scarcely daring to swallow, as he held the bottom end taut against the blade and sliced it through. David twisted the strands together and tied them around the hilt of his knife. "I may have cut too long a strand," he said. "I'm afraid you'll be angry with me."

I wished for nothing more than to throw myself at him and beg him to take anything he might desire, but I knew my duty. "Indeed not," I said instead, and David smiled.

The days were long without him. I felt Merab's absence now more keenly than ever; before my marriage I had found idle pursuits with which to occupy myself when the household duties did not seize me with excitement, but now even activities like walking the gardens and tending to the birds left me anxious and jittery. I walked the grounds, but the flowers seemed pale and wan, their fragrance listless; the breeze failed to move me, the air sitting hot and stifling against my skin. Even the best palace dishes tasted no more than dust on my tongue. I attempted to sit with the household finances -- without my mother here I was in charge of such things -- but the numbers swam in front of my eyes and I soon gave it up.

After a day or two, Father called me in to ask about the marriage, if I felt myself treated well, and I fear I embarrassed myself as I gushed until he sent me away, laughing about the endless prattling of girls.

"Women," I said to him, tossing my head. "I am married now."

"Of course," Father said, indulgent, and he took my hand and kissed the back of it. "I wish you every happiness, my daughter. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I paused, but Father did not offer his word lightly, and at any rate, my request was not so large. "I would like to see Merab," I said. "I have not seen her since she was married, and I miss my sister. I would so love to share the news of my happiness with her, and to know how she fares in Abel-Meholah."

Father tilted his head to the side like a falcon considering a choice piece of meat. "I see no reason why not," he said at last. "It will be some weeks before David can return to the palace, and I would not like to see you so pale for so many days."

I did not run to him like I might have as a girl, not with the advisors standing close and watching us; instead I inclined my head, twisting my fingers in the fabric of my gown and lowering myself to kneel. "Thank you, Father," I said. Father smiled and waved his hand, sending me away.

As messages passed between the houses of Saul and Adriel, I made myself ready. I gathered my clothes and oils, and chose a bolt of fabric for my sister to have made into a new gown, for Abel-Meholah might be a beautiful, fertile land, but surely they did not keep up with the fashions of Jerusalem, and Merab would wish to look her best.

I could scarcely keep my calm as we rode north to the Jordan Valley, where Abel-Meholah lay just a handful of miles south of Beth-shean. I had never visited the land of Issachar, and I could not help but peer out through the curtains of the litter. The bearers struggled through the rocky terrain of the mountains as the road dipped up and down, but at last we reached the valley. The men ordered a rest, and I stepped out to look around me.

I gasped; I had heard of the richness of the valley -- Mother had hastened to reassure me when I wept for Merab's absence, and I had gleaned any detail I could from men who had travelled there -- but it did not prepare me for the rolling green terrain around me, the meadowland that stretched for miles, replete with trees and orchards.

"What a place," I breathed, and my heart eased. Surely Merab could not be unhappy in such a beautiful place as this; surely such beauty as this could not produce an evil man.

We travelled to the house of Barzillai, and my sister stood at the gate to greet me, surrounded by her ladies. I cried out and ran to her as soon as I was able, for there she stood, glorious and beautiful as always, the same as when she left me but for one thing: she was with child. We embraced and wept onto each other's shoulders, ignoring all as the servants took my things up into the house, and at last Adriel stopped by us, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Your rooms are ready, if you would like to meet in private," he said, and I thanked him.

"You didn't wait!" I teased her once we were alone. She was not heavy yet; only the curve of fabric over her middle told me, that and the knowing expression in her eye that I had only seen on the face of mothers. "I trust he was not so terrible as you feared?"

"Indeed not," Merab said, gripping my hands tight between both of hers. "Oh, Michal, he is a good man, far better than I ever hoped. He treats me well, and I could not have asked to live in a more lovely place than here. My only regret is that I miss my sister daily, though I can't understand why, as she was a shrewish, troublesome creature."

"Oh!" I said, plucking a date from the platter between us and throwing it so that it stuck in her hair and she had to pry it loose with her fingers. "How can you say such things, when you are with child and I cannot strike you as you deserve!"

Merab smiled at me, full and wicked, and I could not be angry with her. "I am happy," she said, sitting back with a sigh, one hand resting across her rounded belly. "Truly, I am. I thank the LORD every day that I was given to this man instead of to David."

She said his name with the faintest hint of a sneer, though she did not go so far as to let it touch her face. I chilled. "What do you mean?" I asked. I thought word of the marriage would have spread to Abel-Meholah, but that was the folly of the newly wed, to think that the goings-on of the world revolved around one's own happiness.

"Any man who could cast away a wife for the sake of his honour and modesty could never be a good husband," Merab said with a wave of her other hand. "And anyway, Adriel is not a warrior, so I might see him whenever I please. David is a soldier; I imagine any wife of his would come second to his men and the war and Father. She would never command his whole heart, and I could never settle for anything less."

I dropped my hands into my lap and struggled to maintain my composure, but I could not keep my countenance. Merab stopped, and she took my hands again. "Michal?" she said, her voice insistent. "What did I say? What happened?"

"I am married to David," I said, my voice faint. A pall settled over the glow of happiness I had carried since David appeared in the doorway and called for me, his bride. "He is not as you say, Merab. He is a good man and he will be a good husband. We have only had a few days together, but in that time --"

"Oh," Merab said quietly, and she tugged me toward her, pulling me in with my head against her breast, her arms around my shoulders. I could not remember the last time she had ever shown me such affection without a teasing undertone to temper it, but I did not question. "Oh, Michal, never listen to what a woman says after she's been scorned. I spoke out of bitterness, not truth. Had I known, I would not have done."

"It's true that his first duty is to Father and to the war," I said, squeezing my eyes shut. "But is that not right to be so? Father lifted him out of the wilds and made him into the man he is; he owes Father everything. Should he not wish to repay it?"

Merab sighed, her breath tickling my ear, and she held me close, rocking us together. "I think he ought to spend as much time as he can with his doting wife," she said, a layer of harshness in her tone that she could not quite mask. "But I do not think him so mean as to do it on purpose. He is like our brother Jonathan, Michal; his first thoughts run to war and fealty. It will take some time for him to adjust to how a husband should behave."

"He behaved very well while he was able," I said, and I meant nothing by it until Merab let out a startled burst of laughter and poked me in the ribs. "I did not mean that," I said, but Merab continued to snicker and at last I chuckled with her. "Though yes, I could not find it in me to complain." I turned my face away that I might not stain her clothes, good sister that I was. "I do wish he did not have to leave me, but he is a warrior, and that is who he is. I should not hope to change him."

Merab kissed my hair. "Forgive me for my poison words," she said. "I'm sure he is a good husband, though whether he is deserving of my sister is yet to be determined. In order to make a proper judgement, I must have details."

I sat back and gave her a stern look, even as her easy and insouciant manner dried my tears before they fell. "You are incorrigible," I told her. "I would have thought that marriage would have tempered your need to be entirely inappropriate."

"You will find that marriage tempers very little and magnifies a great deal," Merab said with an air of self-importance. "Whoever a person is before marriage, afterward they remain the same, only more so. But I will not be distracted; you must tell me." She grinned at me, warming my heart. "We know he has not the face of an ogre, nor the body of a bear, so only one of our predictions remain. Tell me, has he --"

I threatened to upend the entire goblet of water over her head, and Merab relented, laughing.

That day we sat together, talking and laughing and singing, trading stories and hopes and fears as we did in the old days. At dinner I joined her and her husband, and Adriel proved himself a good companion at meals, charming without being obnoxious, and attentive to my sister's needs and mine. I relaxed in their presence, basking in the light of their love, and I did not feel my own solitude quite so sharply.

All remained until night, when Merab drew away from me instead of coming to join me. It struck me that she would sleep with her husband and I alone, and I felt foolish for forgetting when I had sat with her husband all through the evening meal. Merab noticed my startling, and she returned to my side, pressing my hands.

"Sleep well, little sister," she said, kissing my cheek. She leaned in close under pretence of fixing my hair, and whispered into my ear. "Think of your handsome husband, far away and all alone. Surely he feels your absence as keenly as you do his."

I flushed hard, unable to speak for fear of sputtering, and Merab twirled away and left me, her husband's arm at her waist.

I did not sleep well that night, and in the morning I stole a good part of Merab's breakfast from her plate and dared her to chide me. She did not, only winked in a most audacious manner and called for another tray of food.

I stayed at Abel-Meholah for several weeks. My sister and I sat and talked together; we weaved and sewed and played, and in the sultry hours of the evening before dinner we would retire to the gardens, sitting under the trees while Merab closed her eyes and I told her unborn child stories. The constant companionship kept my loneliness at bay during the daytime, though at night I lay awake, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of my husband.

I wondered if he thought of me as he lay on his pallet on the battlefield, surrounded by soldiers and horses. I would not ask him when we met again -- too foolish a question, that, even for a wife to her husband -- but I hoped he did.

At last the time came for me to return to Gibeah, and though I tried my best to the contrary, I wept hard against Merab's shoulder. My only consolation lay in the knowledge that she felt our parting just as strongly, for her eyes glistened with tears even as she held me and told me to be strong.

"Give Father my love," she said, and I nodded, unable to speak as a torrent of words and emotions pressed at my throat. "Tell him -- tell him I'm sorry I did not trust him. Whether he intended it or not, I am happy now, and it is his doing regardless of how he meant it."

"I will," I said at last, my voice thick with tears. Merab kissed me, Adriel pressed my hand, and I returned to the caravan.

This time I could not look at the scenery as we made our way west across the Jordan and down south. I did not weep the entire journey, but only because I so determined not to that I carved crescents into my palm with my fingernails.

I returned to the palace, empty and alone, without my sister or my husband, and I knew not how I would spend my days. I sent my maidens away and unpacked my things myself just to give myself a means to occupy my time, and as I smoothed the wrinkles from my folded gowns I teetered on the brink of despair.

Was this to be my life? A few short, glorious days with David when he returned, and crushing ennui and dissatisfaction in his absence? It did not feel right to do so; perhaps I would go to the temple to pray and ask for the LORD's guidance. Perhaps if the prophet Samuel spoke to me and shared with me his wisdom I would find some measure of peace.

I blamed the separation; any new wife deprived of her husband during what should be the most happiest times was bound to find herself unbalanced. I did not speak my thoughts to my maidens, nor to Father, or even Mother, when I saw them at dinner.

My husband returned to me some weeks later, and I nearly garnered the disapproval of all by bursting through the crowd that surrounded him and flinging myself into his arms, covering his face with kisses. He was sunburnt and filthy, dust from the road coating his clothes and settling in his curls, but I did not care, and only with the greatest forbearance did I wait until he finished his meetings with Father.

I sat in our house, my lyre in my lap, but though my fingers plucked the strings I could not draw a full melody from it in such a distracted state. I began the first few notes of one refrain before switching to another melody, and in the end I must have driven my maidens to distraction though of course none of them said a word to me. Eventually the matron plucked the lyre from my hands and replaced it with a patch of fabric to embroider, and I could not even disapprove. I did, however, prick my thumbs until I ruined the cloth with my blood.

At long last I heard my husband's footfalls in the corridor, so familiar to me despite the separation. I just about leapt to my feet, but wrested enough control of myself to remain seated, nodding to my maidens to leave us. They melted away through the side doors, and I sat, rigid and quivering, waiting until David crossed the threshold.

He was beautiful even as he combed his fingers through his hair, shaking dust onto the floor, and with no one to see my shame I ran to him and threw my arms around him. David laughed, catching me around the waist and kissing my forehead as I buried my face in his chest. "Was I gone so long?" he asked, pulling back and tilting my face up to meet him.

"Years and years," I proclaimed, like a foolish young thing, but David only smiled and kissed me.

Much later we lay together, my head on his chest while he traced idle patterns on my shoulders with his fingertips. I shivered at his touch, glad to have him back again, however selfish. "I think I counted some new scars," I said, tracing the line of a weal on his side, as yet red and angry and not yet fully healed.

David sucked in a breath at the contact. "A few," he admitted. "But none that caused me any danger, I promise. You need not fear."

"You may as well tell the sun it need not rise," I scolded, feeling braver now with his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. "What else is a wife to do when her husband is away, placing himself in the paths of swords and arrows and spears and all manner of dangerous things? You cannot ask me to be complacent."

"I'm sure you will become accustomed," David said, in a tone that he clearly felt reassuring while it did not have the desired effect on me. "Besides, I have your brother to protect me. We swore to look after each other long before you and I were ever betrothed."

I did not like the sound of that; men on the battlefield shared a bond together that no wife or mother or sister ever could, and my brother already thought himself David's closest companion. I wished for no more reminders that there existed a place in my husband's heart that I might never touch.

Perhaps David felt my temper cool, for he shifted position so he might look at me, his expression solemn. "I was born to serve the LORD and my king," he said, and though I loved him I had the most un-wifely urge to smother him with a pillow like I did Merab at her most irritating moments. "That doesn't mean I will neglect my duties to my wife, but you must try to acclimatize. I will be in danger. I will always come home to you."

I nodded, but in my heart I merely decided not to raise the subject again, whatever my inner thoughts. I did not want talk of my father or my brother in my marriage bed; I had to share so much of David already that there was no sense in provoking him.

I could not find words to voice my thoughts without sounding petty and foolish, and so I did not, but merely raised my face so that David might kiss me. Whatever his faults, David understood that request, and we did not speak again for some time. Once we were at liberty to talk again, I found I no longer wished to.

Chapter Text

And so we lived, weeks or months apart followed by a handful of weeks together where I sought every moment with him that we could. David continued to distinguish himself in battle, and the whispers around him grew. Tales were told of his prowess, how he defeated a thousand Philistines in a single day; how he brought down an army's charge with no men at his back; how his army raided town after town, leaving them empty and burning. I knew they had to be exaggeration, but that did not matter; the fact was that David's deeds had surpassed reality and transcended to legend, and soon the forbidden phrase returned to everyone's lips.

Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands!

Father had always flown into rages when he heard it, but this time his anger cooled, like molten iron plunged into water to strengthen it. He took his men and rode into battle himself, the royal banner furled behind him, and soon the talk turned to the bravery of our king, that unlike other cowardly nations, ours did not have a ruler who hid while other men died in his place.

But still, people compared them, and while no one suggested that my husband would usurp my father -- except, perhaps, in places where wine loosened tongues and eradicated discretion -- there was scarcely any talk of Saul without its relation to David. Father grew silent and snappish, and Mother urged me to find other occupations at dinner so my presence would not anger him.

I did my best to talk to my husband when I saw him, though those times grew rarer and rarer as he only returned for a week, sometimes only days, before leaving again to fight. "You do not have to serve Father quite so well, surely," I pleaded, my hands on his forearms. "You might temper your zeal a little. People will begin to think you fight out of vanity and pride, not out of the desire to honour your LORD and your king."

David gave me the sternest look he had ever turned upon me, and my breath caught at its sharpness. "What weak woman's words are those?" he demanded, and I heard the coarse talk of soldiers in the way he spoke. "I should not stay here and wile away my time playing the lyre when good men march out to battle. I should be ashamed, and your father would have every right to turn me out. He did not give you to me because he liked my music!"

I turned away, tears pricking my eyes, and David left me, storming out to spend the rest of the day with my brother, likely shooting arrows as they often did alone. He returned later that night and spoke to me in a low voice, soothing and placating, and while my temper burned hot in my breast I allowed him to pacify me. I did not enjoy arguing, and a good wife knew when to be silent.

Until the day that Father called me in before him; he sat on his throne in a fit of high dudgeon, his jaw clenched and a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Tell me," he said, fixing me with a terrible stare, and I wished for a knife even though I had no knowledge of how to use it. Simply holding it in my hand would comfort me, I thought, when faced with the full fury of Father's rages and no idea what I had done to bring it upon me. "What good are you as a daughter if you can't keep your husband home?"

I gawked at him, my mouth ajar; several attempts passed before I managed to work through my shock to form words. "I ask your pardon, Father. What am I meant to have done?"

"I gave you to him so that he might not always go charging into battle and coming home heaped with praises," Father snapped. "I wished you to be a distraction, a balm on that heroic itch of his, so that he need not try so hard to replace me on the field of glory. So I ask you again, what good is a woman if she can't ensnare her husband and keep him from going out to war?"

"I had no idea this was your wish, Father," I said, and fear pounded through my veins but with something else, too. The treacherous glimmer of what might be hope. "I thought you would be displeased if I held him from my duties. I would like nothing more than for my husband to remain with me, but I did not think you desired it."

"Foolish girl," Father muttered, but some of his ire cooled, and I breathed a little easier. "Getting things backwards. Well, I am telling you now that if you value your life at all, you will do your best to keep David from the battlefield so that the people might remember who is their king."

I thought of David's flash of temper, the anger in his eyes as he raised his voice to me, and I trembled. "How am I to convince him?" I asked Father -- uselessly, I knew, but I could not stop myself. Despite my fear and unwillingness, a part of me burned hot; indignation that he would put this burden upon me when he could simply order David from the field himself. But no, the great first King of Israel would not do so, for it would make him look petty; instead he would place the duty on the shoulders of his daughter, risking her marriage for the sake of his pride.

"That's up to you," Father said with a wave of his hand, as I knew he would. "But you are my daughter, and you know your duty. All I ask is that you see it done."

I spent the rest of the day in the Temple until my legs ached and my back protested, praying to the LORD for guidance. The hard stone pressed against my knees but still I sat, bent in supplication, and I yearned for the coveted whisper in my soul that my prayers had been heard, that I might find some measure of peace. In the end I stood, and my muscles creaked as though I were a woman thrice my age, but this time a strange calm suffused me. I would convince him. I would save my husband, both from the Philistines and from my father.

After that I waited for David to return to me, and when he did I saw our argument in the set of his jaw even as he kissed my hair and did not mention it. The discord swirled between us, and I ought not to feel such anger toward my father -- it was forbidden, the LORD told I should honour him in all that I do -- but I did, for a moment, before I cooled it.

"My husband," I said, and David glanced at me, eyes hard and suspicious. "I know you don't wish to hear it, but you must. You must give up the fight for a time and remain at the palace here with me and my father."

David folded his arms, and the scent of sunlight clung to his hair and for a moment I wavered, but no, no, I would not. "I don't want to have this argument again," he said, and his time with my brother had refined his accent, sharpened it into the tones of the city, but the broad vowels of his country heritage slipped through as he lost control of himself. "You know my wishes. You would do best not to ask me again."

"Do you you truly serve my father, or do you serve yourself?" I asked him, stepping close and laying my hand against his chest. "For whom do you reap the glory and accolades? For whose sake did you win the bride price for me? I love you, husband, but you skirt the line of pride, and I fear for you. I fear that you enjoy the praise more than you enjoy the gift of submission and servitude. I worry that you have forgotten your humility. I am afraid that the cheers of the people have reached your ears, but instead of lifting them upward to your king and the LORD, you allow them to stop with you." I fixed him with a hard look, and I did not take pleasure in the lock of shock that drained the colour from his face, but I did note that my blade had met its mark. "This is a test of your honour, husband. If you honour my father and the LORD, you will listen to your wife when I tell you that for now, I believe your duty lies here."

David staggered back so I no longer touched him. "I -- of course I honour your father," he protested, nearly sputtering. "How could anyone think otherwise?"

"You do not correct those who sing your praises over his," I said, and David winced, his cheek twitching. "You do not chide them as you once did. It is no sin to be swept away by compliments, my love, but if you continue thus, I fear that you will not only lose the love of my father, who brought you into his home like a son, but an essential part of yourself. You are a shepherd, the son of Jesse. You once refused to marry my sister because you felt the honour too far above your station. Do not allow yourself to swing too far the other way."

David swallowed, and he gaped at me as though I had sprung wings and flown into the sky. "I had not --" he stopped, ran both hands through his hair and tugged hard. "I know no other way to serve him, if not through deeds."

"Serve him with your love," I said. I lay may hand upon his arm, and he closed his fingers over mine, a reflex gesture that warmed my heart and told me that perhaps I did not need to fear so strongly. "Serve him with your devotion to him, to his daughter, your wife, and his son, your friend. Allow him to see that it is not the acclaim of battle you crave but his acceptance, and let his behaviour be your guide."

David wet his lips, but he did not argue. Instead he bent and kissed me, his hand warm against my shoulder. "I will think on it," he said.

Two days later he returned, pale and drawn, and he embraced me and rested his forehead against mine. "You spoke the truth," he said. "I told Jonathan of your words -- I am sorry, I did so out of resentment and the urge to hear them discredited, but he is my friend and I confide in him -- and Jonathan told me..." David paused. "He said the king -- he said Saul once feared I was not honest, that I slept under his roof yet sought to usurp his throne and take the kingdom for myself. Once he asked Jonathan for help in causing my death, in order to keep his kingdom sure. Jonathan pleaded on my behalf and the king agreed he was mistaken, but --" He swallowed hard. "You were right. I have undertaken too many deeds for my own benefit, and not the king's. I must temper myself. Will you forgive me for speaking with you so harshly?"

"Of course, my husband," I said. Triumph battled relief for the master of my emotions, and rather than speak and possibly betray myself, I allowed David to sweep me into his arms and carry me into our rooms. That day we were reunited in a way that had not occurred for several weeks, and the gnawing unease in my heart quieted.

David returned to our home then, and my brother too, for as companions they would not be parted from each other, and that made for a very pleasant time as the three of us walked and ate together. After two weeks passed and David made no move to leave -- when the people's clamouring for him faded to a dull murmur on the streets and nothing more -- Father caught my eye at dinner on a night we joined him at the palace, and he gave me a nod of approval. I still felt the prick of resentment for the way he had used me, but as the results gave me my husband at my side and an ease in the ever-present terror that he would only return to me in pieces, I could not blame him overmuch.

One effect of our togetherness that I neither expected nor intended was the cooling of our ardour. I had not considered it at the time, but the long absences and short time in each other's company had, by necessity, inflamed our times together into a wild rush to make the most of it. Now that the days and weeks stretched ahead of us in a long line of companionship without the thrill of separation to sweeten it, we found ourselves rushing into each other's arms less and less.

He stayed out later with his friends in the evening, and I tended to my own duties, keeping to the everyday business of the household or to practicing my music. I walked the city and tended to the poor with my maidens, answering questions about my marriage with a smile. At first I would wait for him, but as the night stretched on, oftentimes I took to my bed before he returned.

It comforted me, in a strange way, to know that even without the hard flame of new love our marriage still burned true, and I took pleasure in drifting to sleep alone and waking up with David lying next to me. He did not reek of wine or perfume or any other markers of debauchery or adultery, and he always curled an arm around my waist and drew me close to him in the moments before he woke.

We found ourselves in a routine, a routine which served us well and which could only strengthen with each repetition. We woke together and attended breakfast in our garden, the morning sun warm on our faces as the butterflies flitted around us. During the day David would leave with Jonathan, to practice fighting manoeuvres or play at sport while I tended to the duties of the household, and they returned to me in the hot, lazy hours of the afternoon, where I urged them to tell me of their exploits. They regaled me with tales of imaginary battles in place of real ones, and I much preferred the manufactured horrors to the ones that threatened to take my loved ones from me.

In the evenings we often joined Father for dinner at the palace, and during the meals Father when called for David and his lyre, we all sat and listened to him as he played. As always, David played the lyre like a lover, and now I shivered to watch his fingers move across the strings with the same deft surety that they did across my skin. Once Jonathan caught me, and he must have noticed something in my expression for he made an awful face at me. I repaid him by sticking dates in the sleeves of his robe so that they stuck to his wrists and ran juice down his arms. He sighed at me and played the part of an older brother too mature for such antics, but when I next sipped my wine I found it tainted with mustard.

Afterward I would retire while Father, David and Jonathan discussed the news of the day as men did, without the presence of women, and I busied myself in my chambers or went over business with the servants until I grew tired or David returned early. And so it was that the days were pleasant and full, and I scarcely felt the cloud of war over my head as it once was.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and with no real need to mark the time I allowed it to blur together into a happy swirl. I thought myself so wise, having at last reached the coveted stage of happily married woman, and I allowed myself to believe the fiction that it would never change, that we would continue on like this, forever.

Only once did David return to the battlefield, and only then because the Philistines amassed in such a number that surely we would have been overtaken. Even Father could not argue that David did so out of self-aggrandizement, for every able-bodied soldier, including Father, returned to defend us from the onslaught. I scarcely slept until their return but return they did, bloodied but triumphant, and the song of their victory hung on everyone's lips until I thought I would go deaf from the peal of trumpets and the roar of the crowds.

Father praised David for his actions on the field, and David returned to me, and all was well.

Until the night that David returned to our rooms, white-faced and shaking. I put down the book of the household finances and ran to him, holding him by the arms as he looked over my shoulder, eyes wild and searching. For a moment I thought he did not even see me, and his chest heaved with hard breaths while he struggled to control himself.

"Your father --" David said at last, wetting his lips, and at last his gaze bore into mine with such intensity that I gasped. "He tried to kill me."

My legs trembled, but I could not allow myself to swoon, not with David in such a state. He needed his wife to be his rock, and a rock I would be. I swallowed the wave of panic and gripped his arms tight. "What do you mean?"

"I was playing my lyre for him," David said, and ran a hand over his face. "I don't know what happened, but something changed. He looked at me with such an ugliness in his eyes -- as though I had angered him to his core, though I did nothing but play for him as he requested -- and then he took up his spear and he threw it at me. I ducked, and it left a hole in the wall. When I fled the servants were bringing a tapestry to cover it."

"You did nothing," I said, fear hammering in my chest. Had there been an upsurge in the rumours about David's claim to the throne? "Father -- the pressures of ruling are sometimes too much for him. He has his rages, but he doesn't mean anything by it." David let out a shaking breath, and I pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "I do not excuse him, or make any attempt to belittle what happened, but I urge you not to believe it. Father loves you, and you have proven yourself to him a hundred times over. He would not truly wish to harm you. Samuel will help him, and the demons shall pass."

"Jonathan said the same," David said, and he lowered his head and released a long, slow breath. "He said that the king confides in him about his innermost thoughts, and that he could not have designs to kill me. The king spoke to him of his suspicions before, after all, and has not done so now. But Michal --" He looked at me with panicked eyes. "I do not know what to do. I do not know how I may serve him if my every move gives offence. What rest is there, if even my playing the lyre and singing for him draws his ire?"

"I cannot believe it," I said. "It must only be a fit of temper, an ill word placed upon him by his enemies. My brother will convince him to go to the Temple, he will make a burnt offering, and all will be well. You needn't leave so soon." I gripped his arms. "Please," I said. "I am not certain of my father's motivations but I know my own will, my own mind, and I cannot be without you. My father knows this, and he loves me. He would not truly wish to harm you when he knows what grievous injury that would cause me."

"I know not what to think," David said. I led him toward the bed and sat him down, worked his robe off his shoulders and attacked the knots in his neck with my fingers. "I love your father with a force greater than I loved my own, and yet he does not trust me."

"Wait," I urged him. "Let me speak to Father in the morning and see if I may uncover the truth."

David shook his head, but exhaustion and confusion pressed against him so that it took no great skill to convince him to lie down and take some rest. I smoothed my finger across his brow, and under my touch he slowly calmed, his breathing even, until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

I could not join him; my thoughts ran at a pace far greater than the most prized warhorses, tumbling around like the wheels of chariots. Father's jealousy, his suspicion, what drove him to such lengths? Could it be explained by the pressures of ruling, or did something darker lie at work? Had my father displeased the LORD, that he could not rest until he drove those who cared for him from his side? I would speak to him, but I had no reason to believe it would go well. I had done as he asked, I had kept David from securing more recognition and acclaim for himself -- he only fought now when everyone else did the same, when Israel lay in immediate peril -- and still Father sought to end his life.

I lay awake in the darkness, and every creak of the branches outside, every rustle of leaves, inflamed themselves into the footsteps of intruders and would-be murderers in my mind. The flap of wings past the window became the cloak of an assassin; outside on the path between our house and the palace, I fancied I heard rhythmic footfalls thumping against the ground --

No. No fancy, that; the footsteps were real, and I had lived at the palace long enough to recognize the steps of my father's most trusted guards, the jingle of metal as they held their weapons at the ready. In an instant I leapt out of bed, and I shook David by the shoulder. "Awake, my love, awake," I said, and David might be exhausted and heartsick but he was a soldier still, and he sprang awake in moments. "You were right, my father has sent men to kill you. I will hold them off; you must go."

David slid from the bed, and I felt the stab of relief that I had not urged him to undress before he collapsed into bed. It took him only moments to find his shoes and to strap a sword to his waist; he took a moment to toss a few clothes and belongings into a bedsheet, which he knotted and tossed over his back.

"Find Samuel, at Naioth in Ramah," I told him. I could help him leave the palace, but not afterward; I knew nothing of the world outside insofar as to hide a wanted man, where to find food or shelter. "He will help you."

The footsteps grew closer; the men walked softly to hide their tread, and if I had been asleep we might not have woken. Fear thrilled in my chest, but it twined round and round with determination. They would not take my husband from me; not while I still drew breath. David's breath sat ragged in his chest. "They will kill you if you aid me."

"They will not." I drew aside the covering from the opposite window, glancing down to ensure that no men waited there. "There. You must escape, I will convince them, buy you time. Run. Find Samuel."

Were time itself to fall apart and leave us frozen in that moment, I could not have kissed him for long enough. Now his mouth tore itself from mine before I scarcely felt its touch, and David lowered himself down through the window. I did not stop to watch his descent, much though I wished, for the men were closing and I had not the time. I wrestled the teraphim from its spot in the corner and dragged it over to the bed, where I pulled the blankets up so that they resembled the form of a man. We kept a goatskin blanket over a chair, and I wrapped it around the head to make the appearance of my husband's russet hair.

The soldiers closed, and I flung myself back into bed, my heart pounding with such force I thought it would burst straight out of my chest. When they entered the room I sat up and held out my hand, and these men might have been sent to murder my husband on my father's order but they were good men nonetheless, and would not barge in where a princess slept without her permission.

"What is the meaning of this?" I asked, standing, and they averted their eyes from my figure, clad only in the light shift I wore to sleep. "My husband was taken ill after dinner and is resting. If you have business with him, I ask that you return in the morning."

"The king wishes to speak with him," said one of the men, but I drew myself up to my height.

"The king cannot have business so grave that he would risk worsening his loyal servant's illness," I said. "If my father's dreams trouble him and he wishes for someone to play and soothe his heart, take me to him, and I will do it."

They hesitated, but at last they withdrew, bowing their heads to me. They ducked as they passed through the door, tipping their spears that the points did not scrape across the door frame, and once they left I sank down onto the bed while my legs shook.

They would return, that I knew, and Father's rage would be incensed at my disobedience, but I had to do what I could. By now David would have reached the courtyard, and perhaps climbed the wall and escaped. In the meantime I retrieved my tefillin, though I could not put them on as I could not calm my mind enough to say the blessings with proper respect and attention. Instead I ran my fingers over the wooden boxes, closed my eyes, and sent my prayers up to the LORD, that He might guide my words when my father called me into his presence.

And, to no less urgency, that something might lay a balm upon my heart. Through my marriage to David, so my allegiance shifted from father to husband, but I could not betray my father with an easy heart. We may have quarrelled, I might have even harboured feelings of intense anger or even hatred toward him, but he was my father still, and deserved my loyalty. I had spoken against him, I had challenged him and fought with him and even shouted at him -- no doubt I had broken the restriction against causing a parent pain a hundred times over -- but I had never turned against him, and never lied.

My stomach churned, and I twisted a curl of hair around my fingers while my mind raced. At last I stood and dressed, for I had no doubt that Father would soon summon me, and I would not march with the men to see him in my night clothes. I combed my hair but did not pull it back, hoping that the girlish style would remind Father that I was not his enemy, but his daughter. If I were to succeed in tempering his rage at all, I must appeal to him through emotion, not logic. I could not argue with him when evil spirits haunted his thoughts, but perhaps I might still reach his heart.

I sat and listened, straining for any sound that might indicate they had caught David, but no shouts floated up through my window; no sounds of pursuit or panic. Nothing but the soft noises of the night, the quiet croak of frogs and the buzz of insects, and I held my hands tight against my knees as I waited. Sure enough, at last I caught the sounds of footfalls as the men returned, and this time I stood and waited for them. They would not be swayed this time, and I would not waste time attempting to prevaricate. Now came the time for strength.

"The king asked us to bring the bed, if he is not well enough to stand," said the head of the men, and I nodded. They filed into the room, moving around to surround the bed, and one of them twitched the blanket away to reveal the statue with the quilt laid atop it. I bit my lip, but they did not react with surprise or anger. "The king would like to see you," the man said instead. I nodded.

To their credit, they did not attempt to touch me, to force me to follow them. They surrounded me, but I walked with them willingly and required no urging. They led me across the grounds to the palace, and in through to my father's chambers, where he often summoned David to play for him. The man who had discovered my ruse stopped and whispered in Father's ear before stepping back and fixing me with a hard, blank stare.

Father sat in his chair, half dressed and with his hair askew, though he kept his beard neatly trimmed as always. "I have a question for you," he began, motioning for the guards to leave us. He didn't wait for them to file out, speaking instead over the regular rhythm of their treads. "What would make an obedient daughter disobey a sacred commandment and turn against her father? Why have you deceived me, and sent away my enemy, so that he escaped?"

I swallowed and gathered strength from the cool stone beneath my feet. Father quoted the holy commandments at me, but the day he signed the ketubah, he also relinquished authority over my actions from now until David's death. My loyalty lay to my husband, and the LORD would protect me; while I could not make myself feel entirely sanguine, I would not allow myself to be cowed. I had made the right decision; even loyalty to my father would not have justified turning my husband over to unlawful death.

Instead, as my brain hummed with urgency, I sought to make Father see, for him to understand the grave injustice he had committed. I thought I perceived a way to make him understand, or at least to second-guess his current line of thinking, but to do so I must break a commandment in truth. Was it worth the risk? Was loving and protecting my husband worth the wrath and censure of the LORD, merely to preserve his life?

I thought of David, hunted down and murdered by my father's men, his body spread out on the rocks, ravens pecking at his eyes and his blood watering the soil. I squared my shoulders. Yes. I knew it as surely as I knew myself. Yes, I would risk the sink.

"He had a sword," I told Father, raising my head. "He said to me, 'Why should I kill you? Let me go and I will spare you'."

Father narrowed his eyes. "So he threatened his own wife, my daughter, in a cowardly attempt to escape justice."

Panic speared my heart, but I forced it to pass through me. "No," I corrected him. "He is a soldier and a violent man; you yourself know this, as you brought him to lead your armies. If you thought this to be false, you never would have entrusted him with the bride price of a hundred foreskins. And yet, you married him to me, which must suggest that in spite of such things, you thought him a suitable husband."

Father clucked his tongue against his teeth in an expression of distaste and dismissal. "So I may have thought, but he raised a sword to you. That speaks for himself."

"He might easily have killed me," I argued. "One scream from me would have raised the household, and he would never have escaped. But yet he did not. He chose to reason with me -- he begged me, Father, not to force him to hurt me -- and because of this action I stand here before you now, hearing your talk of treason, when I might have been slain. There was no action that could keep him here, but you have not lost both daughter and son-in-law in one stroke."

Father studied me with an unreadable gaze, and I pressed on. I must not overplay my hand, but David's life hung in the balance. I had to try. "I love David," I said, and for a moment I did not temper my tone, but allowed the full force of my emotions into my words. My voice trembled with the strength of it, and Father's eyes shot wide for the briefest of moments before he brought himself under control. "Truly, Father, I love him, as does Jonathan. Surely you do not think two of your children so mistaken. I beseech you to consider that when you make your judgement -- the judgement of King Saul, whose wisdom has led the nation of Israel through battle after battle with the blessing of the LORD."

A long silence reigned, heavy with smoke from the candles and torches which Father used to light his room. A cough tickled my throat but I held it back, and after a moment I spoke again, softer this time, entreating. "I love him just as I love you, Father. I did as I thought was right. I believed that if I forced him to kill me by refusing his aid, you would be twice wounded. Am I mistaken?"

Father twitched, and he passed a hand over his face, his expression in shadow. "No," he said at last, hoarse as though the words dragged themselves from the depth of his very being. "No, of course you are not mistaken. I would not wish you harm for anything. I'm sorry, Michal. I will not hunt David. If he sees fit to return, I will embrace him and embrace him back into my household."

I dropped to my knees and kissed the ground at my father's feet. "Thank you," I said. I hoped the LORD would forgive the dust in my throat as I prostrated myself, for I did not praise Father so much I did His mercy and wisdom in guiding Father's thoughts. "You are wise, my king."

Father bent and rested his hand on my hair, then sat up. "Go," he said, his voice gruff, and I knew him to be embarrassed without needing to look and catch the shifty flicker of his gaze. "I am sorry that I woke you."

I returned to my house at a stately pace, and once the guards left me, I sat down on the empty bed, the sheets rumpled and cast aside. The teraphim still lay with its head upon the pillow, the goats-hair quilt in a bunch at the side. I could not bear to set things to rights, nor could I force my racing thoughts to rest, and so I curled up beside the imitation of my husband, stroking the goats-hair with my palm, and sent my thanks to the LORD.

Chapter Text

In the morning, however, Father instructed me to return to my old rooms in the palace. He claimed he wished to keep me safe, in the event that someone might attempt to harm me in my husband's absence, but I did not believe him. I could not disobey, however, and I spent the next few days scarcely permitted to leave his side. As the days passed, Father's tone as he spoke of David hardened, and once again I watched the black shroud of suspicion fall over his shoulders. He sent messengers to find David -- to ascertain his whereabouts and confirm his safety, he said, but the messengers were no fools and neither was I -- but they all returned alone.

I hoped one might bring a scrap of news for me, but either they could not find him or he dare not risk it, and given the hawklike way Father kept his eye on me, it would not have been an undue impulse. I had been away from Father for some time following David's assignment to the courts, but now, spending each waking hour with him, I saw the hunch of his shoulders, the shadows beneath his eyes, and I knew in my heart that he would never forgive David for his imagined crimes as long as they both lived.

At last a messenger returned with news that drew my heart down toward my feet: David had fled to Naioth, and there resided in the company of Samuel. Messengers had attempted to retrieve him, but when they drew near, the fell to the ground and prophesied. Father, in a rage, ordered them all stripped from their duty and commanded a new group of messengers be sent. They returned shamefaced several days later, without David, and bearing the same story. So again the third group, until Father's temper grew so short I feared he might attempt to execute them all at once.

He did not, electing instead to ride to Naioth and find David himself, but then he did not return. Word trickled back that even Father had been stricken by the gift of prophesy, and the whispers began that the LORD protected David so that any man who might wish him harm would be brought low by heavenly power. When Father returned at long last, his expression made such a thundercloud that I dared not ask him if the rumours held true; given the violence of his look, I felt I did not need to ask.

That the LORD would prevent even the king from assaulting David laid a balm across my heart; surely that meant I had acted as I had ought as a loving wife in accordance with the Scriptures. While my soul sat heavy at our separation, knowledge of his safety and the supreme nature of his protection did must to improve my mood.

Father did not speak of David until the second day of the new moon, when in defiance of custom David did not return to Gibeah to sit with my father. I had not expected him to come, tradition or no, given that Father had not publicly spoken nor granted any manner of clemency -- and, given the increasingly fickle nature of Father's moods, said promises could not be said to mean much -- and the first night, Father did not remark upon it.

When David did not return the following evening, Father turned to Jonathan, who sat on his usual couch with Abner, one of Father's soldiers, between them in place of David. "Why has David not joined us today or yesterday, when he must know his presence is required?" Father asked, and the conversation in the room fell to a low hush.

Jonathan replied with care, and while his words flowed evenly, I knew my brother well, and I marked the lie in the tightening at the corners of his eyes, and the way his finger tapped an uneasy rhythm against his robes. He told a story of a family sacrifice in Bethlehem, that David had returned to his hometown to see the family with whom he had not broken bread for years. By the end, even without the intimate knowledge of my brother's tells, I would have known his story false, and from the uneasy glances cast about the room, I was not alone.

We waited as Father paused, the tension stretching out thinner and thinner like bread dough being pulled apart until it tears in the centre. When it broke, it did so with the force of a gigantic wave, overturning a foundering boat and dashing it against the side of a cliff. Father jumped to his feet, knocking over his wine goblet, and Jonathan sat back in his seat, fists balled in anticipation of a fight.

"You son of a whore!" Father shouted in a thunderous roar, and in so doing struck the entire room dumb. Even Jonathan stared, and I myself sat so shocked, so stunned -- our mother sat in the room, as was her custom, but while her nostrils flared she did not move, did not indicate she had heard anything untoward -- that I could not move. "You have chosen the son of Jesse over your father and your king. Do you think I am blind? Do you think I am foolish? You shame yourself and you shame your mother who bore you! As long as David is living, so you shall never receive your birthright or becoming king! Now bring him to me, that I may put him to death as is fitting!"

My breaths came sharp in my chest. All eyes turned to Jonathan, who sat rigid, entire body clenched in fury. "Why should he be put to death? What has he done?" Jonathan demanded, and I hissed to have the charge laid in front of everyone, for all to hear, friends and servants and guards alike, rather than drawing Father aside and speaking in discreet whispers. Father must answer or be shamed, but I understood the rage that drove Jonathan to such measures.

"What has he done?" Father repeated. "He has stolen the heart of my son and turned his loyalty to gall! He moves against me and incites my children to treachery! He seeks to take the very kingdom from me, when I raised him from nothing and made him the man he is today!"

He bent and picked up his spear in a smooth motion, but Jonathan leapt to his feet and stalked out -- and Father, no matter how angry, would not stoop so low as to strike his son in the back when he had no weapons himself. But Father had not only threatened Jonathan, and in his absence I feared where the tide of anger would turn; I rose, made my apologies, and hastened after my brother.

It was not difficult to find him; his footsteps resounded through the corridors as he stomped, and with no one to watch and comment I chased after him and caught him by the sleeve. "What will you do?" I asked.

Jonathan glared at me for a moment, unseeing, before he mastered himself and remembered where he was and who had addressed him. "I am to meet David tomorrow," he said in a low voice, though he did not tell me when or where, and I did not ask. The fewer to know about the plan, the more likely its success. "I will inform him what has transpired, and tell him that he must flee." Jonathan's gaze caught mine, hard at first, then softening at the edges. "He cannot return to Gibeah while Father lives and reigns. You know this."

I knew it with my mind but I had not known it in my heart, not until that moment. My legs collapsed but Jonathan caught me, held me with his hands on my upper arms. "Of course," I said, my voice faint. "Of course I know that. I am not a fool."

"You are no fool, sister, but you are a woman," Jonathan said, in an offhand manner that did not best please me. "You cannot help your weakness, but sister, from this day you will likely never see David again. Not until the day that Father no longer serves as king, for I see no circumstance where Father might be appealed to change his mind."

"I think he might change his mind as often as the tides," I said, a traitorous statement about my own father, but I felt the loss of my husband already, a gaping wound in my chest that I might pack with gauze and spiderwebs but would never heal. "The problem is which way the wind blows tomorrow. David might be safe for one day, but soon Father's humours change and all is lost again."

Jonathan's expression sharpened as though, just then, he approved of me but did not feel it safe to say. "Retire to your rooms," he said. "I will call for you tomorrow after David is away, so that you will know he is safe."

"Tell him --" I swallowed. I knew not what message I could give my brother that would not embarrass both David and me, but at the same time I could hardly give up this chance simply because of matters of propriety. I straightened my shoulders. "Tell him I wish him well. Tell him I will pray for the LORD to guard him with a hedge of protection."

He left me, but I stood in the hallway, the morning sun slanting through the open walls, and all thoughts of hunger dissolved like mist on the hills as the sun rose. "He will never be safe," I said to myself, and my throat choked and I dared not say it again. I left the palace and shut myself up in my house, sending all the servants away. I sat on the bed and wrapped myself up in the clothes David left behind, crushing them to my face so that I might smell his scent on them. I closed my eyes and imagined him there with me, but I could not make the illusion stay. It slipped between my fingers like water, and at last I gave it up.

I did not weep. Weeping skirted too close to the edges of despair, and I did not want to reconcile myself just yet; moreover, weeping would not cool Father's temper, not this time, and it would not bring David back to me.

The next day, Jonathan did not come to breakfast, and Father did not comment on his absence. He ate in tight-jawed silence, and I finished my meal as quickly as I could and fled back to my rooms, for however much it galled me to be afraid of my own father, I could not chase the dread that settled between my shoulders.

Jonathan returned at noon. He stopped inside my door only briefly, his fingers gripping the jamb, and said, "He is away," before turning.

I leapt up and sprang after him. "Wait!" I cried. "What of his message?"

Jonathan blinked at me as though I had spoken in Minoan. "What message?"

"The message he gave you for me!" I planted my hands at my hips, sparked into a temper by Jonathan's reticence. "I may never see my husband again; you cannot tell me that he did not give you anything to tell me. I beg you, tell me of it! It could not have been improper."

Jonathan wet his lips, and this time he looked at me again as though I had changed my form into someone new. I stared at him, aghast, until his expression resolved into something almost kind, but with an undercurrent of something that sat in my stomach like sour goat's milk. "There was no message," I said, the words scarcely more than a breath. I wanted to stumble, but my brother's face gave me strength -- not because he wished it, but because I knew he pitied me. I swallowed against the constriction in my throat. "He sent me nothing."

"He was preoccupied," Jonathan said, reaching out to lay a hand on my shoulder, but I shied away. "When a man finds out he is now an outlaw and a refugee, there are greater things on his mind."

What greater thing could be on a man's mind than giving comfort to his wife, forced to be a widow in act if not in name? I drew myself up in umbrage until I caught the impatience that tightened the corners of Jonathan's eyes. I blew out a hard breath. "You didn't give him my message."

Jonathan's gaze flickered, but soon hardened into stubbornness. "What of it? His entire life has been taken away from him. He needed strength, not your platitudes."

"I am his wife!"

"Yes, his wife!" Jonathan raised his voice, but I did not step back. "You are a woman chosen for him by my father that he tried to refuse but could not, and whom he married so he would not shame you. There is no tie between you, no real connection. You have not ridden with him in battle. You have not saved his life --"

"I have saved his life!" Anger burst forth inside me like a windstorm. "I stayed Father's men! I sent him down the window when he would have been caught and slain in his sleep!"

"Once!" Jonathan thundered. "Once and by chance! I am the one who has his heart in every way that matters." I staggered back at that, my hand pressed against my breastbone. "You were a pleasant diversion, but he pledged himself to me. Not you. If you really mattered, he would have sent you a message whether I passed yours on or not."

He could not have injured me more if he had thrust a dagger between my ribs, and from the hard, triumphant look that crossed his face, he knew it. I curled my hands into fists. "Get out," I told him. My voice shook, and so I tried again, forcing myself to remain steady. "Leave my home at once!"

"Gladly," Jonathan shot back, and spun on his heel.

After Jonathan left, I stepped out through the side entrance into the gardens, where I sat beneath a tree with my feet safely tucked under me. I leaned my head back against the smooth bark and tried to let the gentle chirping of the birds speak to my soul and bring me back to myself, to calmness. Insects buzzed in the leaves, and I breathed in the rich scent of the flowers while my mind trilled at an alarming pace.

It made sense that David did not think of me at the time of his parting, I told myself. Surely the fear and upheaval would be foremost in his mind, tossing his thoughts like a ship on a stormy sea; his priorities would naturally shift to survival, and what he needed to do to escape safely. The tender thoughts of love had no place in the mind of a man of action, otherwise soldiers would never charge into battle for fear of leaving their wives and children fatherless, and we would have no widows. Perhaps if David had permitted his thoughts to turn to me, he never would have had the strength to go.

That certainly made more sense than my brother's selfish assertion that David cared more for him than me. Jonathan neglected his own wife terribly -- and their son, who toddled round the house and called any man who might speak to him 'Papa' for he knew no better -- but that did not give him the right to project his own experience onto someone else. David loved me, this I knew. He had to. That Father had been the orchestrator of the deed in this physical world did not, I was sure, negate that the LORD had brought us together.

I breathed easier as these truths filled me. David would not be away forever, no matter what anyone might think. Father needed him, and surely if I prayed enough for the demons to leave him, then he might finally be free of the mad jealousy that gripped him and turned his thoughts to chaos, trust to suspicion. He and David would be friends again, and all of us live together in harmony for the remainder of our days.

And even if Father did not -- David would send for me, once he established himself elsewhere. My husband must know that I cared for nothing here, that I would abandon the palace and the servants and the rich food for the simplest of hovels with the man who held my heart. He would be ashamed, for David's pride was the closest thing he had to a real flaw, but as he was also a humble man with humble roots who protested the great treatment shown him, surely soon he would realize that a simple life would suit us both. All I need do, when he sent word, would be to impress upon him my utmost sincerity in accepting this new life.

Riches meant nothing, if I had to enjoy them alone.

Some days later, Father called for me. I followed his messengers to the audience room, and my heart beat with a mixture of fear and anticipation as I could not discern any reason why he would. I had not heard from David, nor had I attempted to run to be with him. The people had not heard of the falling-out, as the rumours had not reached the streets when I walked with my maidens down to market and returned with a handful of sticky dates, or walked among the city's poorest with my baskets of food and pressed loaves of bread and cuts of meat into their hands.

"You are an embarrassment here," Father said without preamble. The words would prick me deeper were they the worst charge ever levied at me, but I had grown accustomed to such things. "You are Michal, daughter of Saul, child of the King of Israel. You should not be here, tethered to a traitor, to a man who forsake everything dear to him and fled to the hills like a rabbit."

My retort fell dead on my lips, and instead I looked at him with a frown creasing my features. "What do you mean?"

"I will not have my line tied to his," Father said. "It is fortunate you have not borne him a child as of yet, and that must never happen. I will not have any heirs to my throne that come from his loins."

A girl might live to a hundred and twenty and hope never to hear her father speak about her husband's loins, but I pressed on. "But what do you mean to do, Father? Surely you don't think David and I are in collusion now. He cannot risk coming near Gibeah, not with your rage so powerful."

"No indeed." Father shot me a dark look that said he knew rather well where I would go, given the chance. "But it is a loose end, and any good ruler knows those must be eliminated. Every day you remain allied with the house of Jesse is another threat to me. I am giving you in marriage to Palti, son of Laish."

Had the earth cracked in half and devoured me whole, I could not have been more stunned. I lost command of every word in my head, and I merely gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled up and tossed onto the deck of a ship. Father scarcely paid me attention, his mind already moving on to other things.

At last I wrested control of myself, holding my fists tightly so my nails pricked my palms and gave me grounding. "But I am still married. You cannot give me to another man while my husband yet lives; it would be a dishonour to everyone involved. You would make an adulteress of me, and an adulterer of Palti, just to keep my womb safe from David's seed?"

He flinched at my frankness, but if he sought to make me cringe, then I could do the same. Sadly it did not last. "I am free to give my daughter to another man if her husband is dead," Father said with a wave of his hand. He sat in his chair with his seat forward, legs splayed; casual, confident. he had found a solution and was himself best pleased with it. "The son of Jesse is dead to me, and that is enough. A traitor is as good as a corpse."

"By whose authority?"

I could not believe he asked a priest and had this confirmed, and indeed, Father merely shook his head. "By my authority. I am the king of Israel. As I decree, so it will be."

A chill spreads through my heart at his words. "Samuel would not approve," is all I can think to say, as of course I cannot speak higher. I have not the right to do so, and unlike Father, apparently courting madness and death, I will not presume.

"Samuel --" Father spits -- "is conspiring against me with David! Do not speak to me of Samuel. In fact, do not speak at all until you are relieved. Your tongue has cast enough poison already."

And so it was done. There was no ceremony, no celebration; a passel of guards and a handful of maidens accompanied me to Gallim, where my new husband waited at the house of Laish. He was not an unhandsome man, and had my situation been my sister's -- had I been passed over to him as a new bride -- I might have been encouraged. Sweat glistened on his smooth, brown forehead, and he gripped my hand as I alighted from the litter as though he feared I would burst into flame and consume him whole.

I followed him to my new home, and all members of the household cast me scant glances or whispered amongst each other as I passed. The shame burned in my breast until I thought it would ignite the air, and I dared not wonder what they thought of me. Doubtless they thought this as much my design as my father, that I sought to align myself with a new husband now that mine had disgraced himself in the eyes of the king.

I did not know how I would ever eat again, when everything that passed my tongue tasted of ash and smoke and blood.

"My lady," said Palti when we were alone. I twisted my fingers in the fabric of my skirts; I knew nothing of the city of Gallim, nor its people, save for the vague idea that was not an uncivilized place, and of my new ersatz husband even less. But I did know what any man might do when presented with a woman already shamed; I was not a new bride, blushing and virginal, and my father had already made me an adulteress before my husband ever laid a hand on me.

I wished I could have hid a knife, but even so I could no defend myself against his advances forever. One day, he would have me, and either he would force me against my will, or I would be so broken by captivity that I allowed it. Neither option sat well in my stomach, and I fought back a host of tears. I would not cry, not in front of him. I would not give him the satisfaction, nor the encouragement, if his temperament lay in that direction.

"My lady," Palti said again. "You have been done a grievous wrong." My eyes flew open wide. "I know that you are married to David, son of Jesse, of Bethlehem," he said. "I know that you have been given to me because David has stood out against the king and made himself a traitor. But betrayal or not, David yet lives, and that makes you his wife, and I will not touch one who belongs to another man. I will neither sully my honour, nor hers, no matter what the machinations of both of our fathers."

I had just promised myself not to cry in front of him -- indeed I'd thought I might never cry again -- but the shock of it drove a sob from my chest. I dropped to my knees at his feet, head buried in my hands, and I could not find the words to thank him. Palti said nothing, merely waited out the storm and did not move closer, until at last my tears relented and I found my voice.

"You might have done anything you liked and received no public censure," I said. "The king of Israel has given his blessing to the match. It would not be a mark against you to take what is yours."

Palti's face darkened. "The king may have, but the LORD most certainly does not, and I care not for the acclaim nor censure of man. I know what the Scriptures say, and I know what is right. As long as you live in my home, you live under my protection, and no one will touch you."

He stepped back and called in a servant, who stood in awkward silence by the door; I caught the veiled interest in his expression and knew that whatever transpired, word would soon pass through the household as a flame devours dry leaves. "This woman has been given to me falsely," Palti said in a loud voice. "Let it be known to my household that I will protect her, and I will serve her, but I shall not touch her. Anyone who speaks rumours to the contrary, unless they have true proof, will be put to death and their tongues cut out to mark them as a liar. Is that understood?"

The servant nodded, and at the first possible moment, turned and fled.

Palti turned to me and smiled, and the expression strained his face but did not seem wholly false. "I might not be your true husband, but this can be your home, and you may still be mistress. Would you like to see?"

He waved a hand at the open door, and through it I spied the garden, with waving branches and nodding blossoms. I swallowed my reservations, sent a prayer to the LORD for His deliverance, and nodded. "I would."

That first night, as I stared at our marriage bed in terror, Palti withdrew his sword and drove it down into the bed, the sharpened edges each facing the sides where the both of us would sleep.

"I will not cross this barrier," he said to me, the oath heavy in his eyes "Nor shall any man." And it was so.

I stayed at the house of Laish, and both father and son treated me as a daughter even as they acknowledged that I truly belonged elsewhere. I grew to love the women of the house also, from the older servants with the knowing eyes who taught me to manage the house to the young slave girls who helped me bathe. When not with Palti, I spent the days together with them in the women's quarters and felt my pain soothed by their smiles. Palti instructed his messengers to bring news of David as much as possible, and in this way I heard snippets of news of my husband and family as time wore on.

David fought in battle, defending Israel from the Philistines, but was turned over to Saul and had to flee; Saul sent 600 men after David but came back empty; rumours of David having joined an army in secret under an assumed name. David stopped an invading army, David spared Saul's life, David ran away to the desert -- tale after tale providing me with tantalizing glimpses of my husband's evasion of capture and continued rise in the esteem of Israel.

Each time, as word of David in this city or that reached us, I did my best to hold back the quiver of disappointment that he had done all these things and still not even made a mention of me. One afternoon, Palti and I sat in the garden, and I worried a blossom to bits between my fidgeting fingers and confided my fears to him. "What if he has forgotten me?" I asked. "What if Father sent rumours that I sought this marriage on my own, glad to be rid of him?"

"He would not think so," Palti reassured me eyes wide. He took the ruined flower from my hand, then plucked a fresh blossom from the bush and handed it to me with a small smile so I might begin my worried picking anew. "I'm sure he loves you, and if there are such rumours, surely he will give them no countenance. Your love for him shines through you like the morning sun through an open window, so be not afraid that he will lose faith in you."

"Thank you," I said, and I stared at the pink petals in my palm and thought perhaps I need not destroy them after all. "But why has he not come for me?"

"Ay, that's easy enough to answer, I should think," Palti said, looking over the grounds. "You've heard the news of his exploits, same as I. He's fighting and running and hiding in caves. That's no place for a wife. If he did send for you when he had not the means to keep you safe and fed, I should think less of him."

Palti's words heartened me, and so I continued until the day a messenger brought us word of an averted battle at Carmel, where David and four hundred of his men barely avoided a tumultuous battle with a man named Nabal because the man's quick-thinking wife made peace between them. An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach even before the messenger's gaze darted away from me, and seeing my expression, Palti frowned.

"What of this woman?" Palti asked, for I wished to know but did not dare.

"The LORD struck Nabal in the night. He is dead, and David has taken Abigail, the widow, as his wife."

A wave of ice water struck me in the chest and froze my limbs. I could not speak, and so again Palti leaned forward. "You must be mistaken."

He shook his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot. No one in the house of Laish had ever spoken poorly of me for my father's decision, not treated me as an adulteress, after Palti scolded them upon my arrival. The messengers did not feel pleasure at bringing me upsetting news. "I am not mistaken, it has been announced. Not only that --" he flinched, as though Palti might execute him for the tidings he carried. "He has also married Ahinoam, of Jezreel."

Palti glanced at me, took in my sudden pallor, and nodded to the messenger. "Thank you, that will be all. Stop by the kitchens on the way out and tell them I asked to make you a meal for your troubles." He sent the servants from the room and laid a hand on my shoulder, as might a brother, his fingers warm and solid against my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

I pressed my lips in a thin line and imagined myself a tree, rooted in the ground and impervious to wind and rain as my emotions buffeted me. I could not decide between anger or sorrow or a wordless, empty wailing, and so I did nothing, sitting still and silent and breathing through my nose.

"I'm sure his marriage to Abigail is no more than a political alliance," Palti assured me, but for once his soothing words and calm voice did nothing to ease the sickness in my heart. "As for Ahinoam, if we knew the entire situation, it's likely a similar story would present itself. David is a good man and a great warrior, and you love him; he would not cast you aside without a thought."

That night I wished for Merab, that she might soothe me with her mix of wisdom and teasing, that I might find comfort at her shoulder while she held me and tugged my hair. Across the bed, the sword still between us, Palti had to feel my silent weeping, for I could refrain from making a noise but not my shoulders from shaking, but he did not embarrass me.

In the weeks to come I did my best to pull the weeds of doubt that sprouted in my mind, but every time I turned my back, I found another, then another. Palti did his best to comfort me, but my heart burned with jealousy and anger. I might have carried on in this vein forever, except that one day, the Amalekites burned David's base at Ziklag and carried both his wives away as prisoner. Palti used this as further proof that David had done me a service by not bringing me into danger, but I could not take comfort. Even as a girl half my current age I had trembled in fear at the thought of invaders; the tales of their depravity wove their way into our lives as often as the recounting of heroic deeds.

My own heart told me that I had caused this, that in my seething envy I had brought down the displeasure of the LORD. David's wives had suffered because I hated them, hated them for my husband's own frailty and for no fault of their own. I had summoned this curse upon them with my selfishness, and so I went to the temple and made a sacrifice, begging the LORD for forgiveness. I begged for those poor women to be returned unharmed, for I could not bear the guilt of their pain and suffering.

When David fought and retrieved them from the hands of his enemies, I wept with joy. I could not find it inside me to be jealous, even if he had slaughtered half an army to get them while he could not even walk into a peaceful city and take me away from those who would be willing and happy to let me go. A small kernel of disappointment sat in the core of my being but I ignored it, furious at myself for falling so low.

Regardless of intention, Palti was right; it was not a safe time to be the wife of David, and so instead I prayed for the wars to end so I might be reunited without fear, and that all women no longer need to cower under the threat of abduction and violation. That, regardless of the outcome, of who sat upon the throne or whose lands were divided where, that one day we might all live in peace.

Four years I stayed as the wife of Palti, in the city of Gallim. Four years our marriage remained unconsummated. Four years, over half the time that David had spent in my father's household before it all fell apart. A lifetime might turn over in so many days. A war might be won, a quest of vengeance achieved, a thousand babies born and a thousand men die.

Two young people might meet and fall in love. Certainly, in such a time my husband had found himself three wives; it would not be so ever-strange.

I did not love Palti; love could be a choice as much as a wave, and I did not choose it. I did not choose it when we sat together in the evenings under the flickering light of torches and candles, as I went over the accounts of the household or strummed the lyre to ease his headache. I did not choose it when we lay in bed at night, together but not together, his sword between us as an ever-present reminder and warning and promise all at once. I did not choose it when he smiled and plucked a fallen blossom from my hair as we walked together in the gardens, nor when he handed me the freshest olives from his grove and brightened when I pronounced them fine.

By and by, we no longer spoke of David. One evening Palti remarked that we had not heard news for some time, and asked if I would not like a dispatch sent out for information; I paused where I was choosing the fabric for Palti's new tunic, and I thought that if there were news, we would certainly hear it without actively seeking it out. I told him as much, he nodded and returned to his work, and we did not mention it again. One week passed without David's name mentioned by either of us, then another, and then I lost track completely and only noticed in surprise when an occasion did result in someone raising the topic.

I never returned to Gibeah during that time, despite it being only a short journey from Gallim, not even requiring a full caravan. I had nothing to say to my father or brother, and I could not imagine they had anything of value to impart to me. I regretted my decision little; they might send for me any time they pleased, and they did not, and so I permitted them to slip from my mind so I no longer dwelled on them and the bitter poison of our parting. I missed my sister far greater, the loss deeper, but even Palti, who indulged me greatly, could not in good conscience permit me to travel so far in such a tumultuous time. Abel-Meholah sat safely in the valley, but the journey there was fraught with bandits.

I put away my loneliness, and for the most part did not mind it any more than I would an occasional ache in my knee, one which did not affect me except for occasional flare-ups in certain situations, until the day a messenger returned, white-faced and covered in dust, blood splashed across his tunic.

Palti called for water, and I knelt at the man's side, supporting him and pressing my hand to his forehead. His eyes blazed, fever-hot and mad. "It's the king," he gasped, and my heart stopped dead in my chest. I knew that the Philistines had gathered at Mount Gilboa and that the soldiers of Israel had gone out to fight them, and that many men had fallen in recent battles. But the LORD was with us, and I had learned to trust that all would end well.

A servant returned with a pitcher of water, and I held it to the man's mouth. Most of it dribbled down his throat and onto his tunic, stained pink by the blood in his mouth and running to a stop as it tracked through the caked dirt. "The king," the man said again, his eyes fluttering. "The king and his three eldest sons are dead."

Chapter Text

I am ashamed to say that I recall very little after that. I swooned at the news, though I clung to myself long enough to hear Palti demand whether the messenger was certain. I held myself together until the man, between rattling breaths that indicated he would not long remain with us, said that the bodies of my family had been mutilated and carried away by the enemy, and their victory parties witnessed by all who managed to slip away and escape.

After that became insensible, and what followed would forever remain nothing but hazy patches in my memory. They carried me to my rooms, where I turned and cried and dreamt of my father and brothers staring at me with bloodied faces and empty, entreating eyes, asking why I had abandoned them in their time of need. I must have eaten, for I did not starve, and I must have drunk, for I did not perish, but I remembered none of it.

Gradually I recovered myself enough to be aware of small details: the cool, sweet fruit cut into pieces and slipped into my mouth whenever I woke enough that I would not choke on them; the ladies who washed my body as I lay, unable to do so on my own; and Palti, by my side, holding my hand and brushing my sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. Once I thought I felt his lips on my hair in a tender kiss, but when I woke he was asleep with his head near my feet, and I forgot almost immediately.

At last I withdrew from my stupor, and Palti and my maids did their best to drag me, inch by inch, day by day, back to the land of the living. I wept daily at the loss of my family, at the poison that had infiltrated our relationships and turned us against each other. I could not mourn the man my father had become, the man who had separated his daughter from her husband and cast her away as he would an unwanted piece of pottery, but I did weep for the man my father had been, the one he might have been if life and kingship and demons had not driven him to near-madness. I wept for Jonathan -- selfish, possessive Jonathan, who acted as though he owned more of David than his own wife, who wandered the courtyard like a widow after David's departure and usurped my own mourning from me -- because at the heart he was my brother, and he loved me, and regardless of how or in what manner, we both had loved the same man.

I wept for my other brothers, who were often playful and cruel as brothers are, for all the jokes we would never share again. I wept for my mother, to have lost so many. I wept for my family, torn to pieces and scattered like chaff on the breeze.

Through it all Palti sat by my side, never demanding, always comforting, and while he never touched nor tempted me, he pulled me through my grief. At last, on the first day I had watched the sun rise and set without shedding tears in between, we sat together in the courtyard as the blood-red sun stained the tiles. "There is no more impediment against you," Palti said carefully. He did not look at me, which I found strange since we so often spoke as friends, facing each other and with open expressions. "You could return to David, even though he has not sent for you. It was his father who gave you away in marriage; I have no doubt that the priests would rule that you should return to the one who is rightfully yours."

I turned the thought over in my mind. I could return to Gibeah; no one would stop me now that Father had died, and the rumours and whispers said that David had returned and planned to take the throne. I could end my exile and return to the city of my childhood, to the husband I had fallen in love with.

"I think not," I said at last, and something tripped inside my heart even as I looked over the gardens, the orange sunlight shining on the edges of the leaves. "The situation is uncertain, and I am safe here. If he comes for me, I will go."

He glanced at me, the sunlight shining in his eyes, and I did not choose to love him, no.

I did not choose at all.

The death of my father brought more war to Israel and Judah, but not from opposing shores; no, this time the conflict came from inside, as the house of Saul continued to struggle with David. David and his wives, as we soon heard, moved far south to Hebron, and David crowned himself king of Judah; meanwhile my father's man Abner put my only remaining brother on the throne of Israel, and the two sides continued to argue and wage battle and slaughter each other over land and allegiance.

In Gallim, safe in the house of Laish -- a known ally to the house of Saul -- I remained unmolested, and so I spent my days, sick in my soul as the kingdom my father had built fell to pieces in the wake of his death. I begged Palti not to leave the house lest he be killed, and as neither Palti nor Laish wished to draw attention to themselves or their home, he agreed.

Around us alliances shifted and men betrayed their fellows, and the houses of Saul and David worked to shore up strength against the other. I thought of my father, when the evil spirit sat heavy on his shoulders, speaking of David and his ambition, how he would one day erase the line of Saul if he was not stopped. I knew Father's rantings to be those of one possessed by jealousy and driven to extremes by demons, but at the same time, now I saw a glimmer of truth in his words. David did possess great ambition, and now that my father had died, we only now began to see it.

A strange coolness grew in my breast, the more we caught news of the machinations of either side. After years of hoping that David would send for me, that he would fight exile and assassination to have my by his side -- that we might be outlaws together, facing danger together and giving each other strength -- now I felt apathy. If David stayed in Hebron for the remainder of his days, I thought I might not weep too much. He had shown his priorities, and I was not among them; my father may have cast me aside, but David had not even given me that much thought. Once removed from his sight, I disappeared from his mind, and as time passed I could no longer bring up the soft, tender feelings that had so consumed me when I watched him from my window.

I did my best to shut out the world, busying myself in my own, and I succeeded until the day that my brother Ish-Bosheth turned up with a bevy of soldiers and stood at Laish's door. "I demand the return of my sister Michal, to be brought to David, king of Judah," he said in a loud voice, which he must have practiced for he had always been the shiest and least confrontational of my siblings.

Palti stared at him in shock, and for once I stepped in for him, moving between the two and giving Ish-Bosheth a hard stare. "I will not go," I said, lifting my chin. "Have him come for me himself, if he must have me, but I will not be sent to and fro like a package. If David wishes for me, let him say so."

Ish-Bosheth frowned, and he may have been my elder but both Merab and I would bully him shamelessly in our childhood and I would not be cowed by him now, crown or no crown. "But David has demanded it," he said, his voice pitching sideways into a tone very nearing a whine. "Abner said he will win over the men of Israel and make a covenant between our kingdoms, but David said he would not consider it if he did not have you at his side."

My blood chilled, and behind me Palti made a choked-off sound. "He seeks to have the descendants of Saul under his control," I said, my voice tight, and I could not believe it of the handsome man who used to play the lyre and inflame my passion with his hands, but time had taught me many things, most of all that mankind was ever frail. "He had no need for me when Father lived, but now that he has power, he seeks to keep it. He wants the line of Saul weakened, and that means once again having me. Otherwise he would take Abner's offer and let me be."

"Well, I don't know about that," Ish-Bosheth said testily, and I could not help but be amazed that the years had given him little strength. He sounded now at forty the same as he had in his youth, peevish and weak. "All I know is that David will not consider Abner's offer without you, and Abner will not be pleased with me if I allow the negotiations to fail. So that means you must come with me."

"And if I do not?"

I expected Ish-Bosheth to posture and bully, as he used to do when his far-younger sisters teased him to the point of tears in front of the rest of our brothers, but he did not. Instead he went pale, and whatever attempts he made at kingly expression dropped from his face like a mask. He darted forward and pressed my hands. "Please," he said, urgently. His grip hurt my fingers. "Please, don't send me back to Abner without you. I cannot tell you what he will do to me, but even worse, what he will do to you. For you will go, whether you agree or not, but Abner is a powerful man and his temper runs hot. He will come here, murder everyone in the house of Laish, and bring you back by force. I beg you, please. Please come back with me, and no one else need perish."

I staggered back, wrenching my hands free. Palti caught me before I stumbled, and my mind flashed back to a hundred occasions over the years, how he would touch me without design or impropriety, as friend or family but without the possessive right of a husband. I had been given to him and no one would quarrel with the charge, but he had not taken the gift, and had instead been the dearest friend I could ever have.

"And Palti, my husband?" I asked, and Palti drew in a sharp breath, his hands tightening on my arms. I had never used the word as a designation for him, yet as I said so, despite the lack of consummation, I knew it to be true. "What of him?"

"Palti son of Laish will stay in Gallim," said Ish-Bosheth, speaking quickly as though afraid to lose his advantage. "There the house of Laish will remain unmolested and under the protection of both Judah and Israel, so long as no one interferes."

He did not complete the thought and answer the threat of what would happen if Palti did not cooperate, but a sword hung over the house nonetheless. If anyone protested, if they fought to stay me here, then Abner, or David, or perhaps both, would retaliate. If they did not burn the house to the ground immediately, they would approach with four hundred soldiers and demand I be turned over to them. By only sending Ish-Bosheth and his men, they were giving Laish and his son the opportunity to save face, to acquiesce and still escape with favour.

It was a small gift, the lightest of fabric, but I could not produce more out of nothing. If I left willingly, then I would not condemn those who had cared for me to death.

"All right," I said. "I will go. Allow me one last night in my home, and I will return with you in the morning. Your men will find food and your horses water, for the house of Laish is not so small as to deny hospitality to those who shelter here, no matter the reason."

I had spoken without thinking as the lady of the house, but no one argued with me. Ish-Bosheth bowed, then scuttled from the house to pass the news to his men. Palti sent a servant out to tend to their horses, and the two of us retreated, through the house and to the inner garden where we had so often spent our days in quiet mutual solitude.

"This is my fault," Palti said immediately. "I had begun to think of you as my wife, to think about -- to entertain --" He stopped, eyes dark, and I did no force him to finish his sentence, for I knew well enough that of which he spoke. "It is my fault. He that looks at another man's wife hath already committed adultery in his heart, and so I have done. I have brought this upon us. We might have lived together here as companions, without interference, had I not tainted our union with unlawful thoughts."

I laughed, though I found no humour in it, and I lay two fingers against the inside of his arm. "My husband," I said, and he glanced away. "You have done nothing. Whatever the motives for this action, your thoughts are not the cause. You have done nothing to cause reproof; the most stringent priests could find no fault with you."

"But I wanted you, Michal," Palti said, his voice a low, agonized whisper. "For years it did not even cross my thoughts, but after the death of Saul, when David did not come for you, I thought of us as husband and wife in more than name."

I swallowed. I could not voice my thoughts, but I met his gaze, held it, and in that moment I let him see all that I had and had not chosen, every thought I had suppressed or left unrealized. That in these impure thoughts he was not alone. Palti's breath shuddered in his chest. "I would not have acted," he said, looking down at my hand upon his arm. "Whatever I thought, I could not have consummated our marriage, not until David had died and you released from him properly. I could never dishonour you."

I smiled, bitter though it was. "I know," I said. "You are a good man, and true. I asked for one night not so we might finally cement our union -- certainly not when Abner will make me swear that we never did, in order to reaffirm my marriage to David, and I would not wish to lie -- but so I might have this time with you. To reflect and remember, so that even as we part, it shall not be like a limb torn suddenly from the body."

"A limb carved away by inches is still a limb lost," Palti said, but he closed his eyes, took a breath, and calmed himself. "But yes, I understand. I cannot fight for you without bringing shame and war upon my house, and I cannot imagine what would happen to you if I did. You are right; they will make you swear that we did not consummate the marriage, and I will not make you a deceiver."

"They will not think to ask me if I love you," I said, and I did not touch his face but I imagined the sun-roughened skin and the bristle of his beard, whether his lips might be soft beneath my fingers. "They will not ask because it does not matter. But you may, if you like."

Palti's throat bobbed, and he took a step back, erasing the contact between us. "I will not," he said, and this time anger curled in his tone, fisted his hands and stiffened his spine. "I will not because I'm afraid the answer will drive me to madness, and I cannot be rash. Not with men so powerful in play."

I closed my eyes. "That is perhaps wise," I said.

And so, I spent my final night in Gallim in the same bed I had slept all those years, Palti's sword still between us. But this time, I let my hand creep out past the blade, where I found his fingers. I did not hold his hand, but let the outer edge of my finger rest against the side of his hand, and that point of contact burned hot between us like the sun until dawn. It was the most we ever touched in our marriage bed.

Our resolve lasted until the next morning, when I entered the caravan. Palti helped me into it, and when the time came to release his hand I found myself holding fast. Palti looked up at me from the ground, and his years of sacrifice and friendship and support wound round me like a shawl. "Do you not think David might be persuaded?" I asked Ish-Bosheth.

"I shouldn't think so," he said, impatient to be gone. "It's far too important to be cast aside because of a woman's feeling."

Palti hissed a breath, tied fast his sandals, and took up position behind the caravan. "I will accompany you to Hebron," he said, his eyes wet with tears. "They cannot deny me a farewell. I will not entreat anyone to change their minds, nor will I interfere, but I will see her away. I have that right."

Ish-Bosheth waved a hand. "Yes, fine, only don't hold us up," he snapped, flush with authority now that he had gotten his way, even if it did not come from him. "We won't wait for you if you fall behind."

And follow us he did. Palti walked next to the caravan, and while he did not wail or rend his garments, he did weep, and steadily. The tears ran down his face and dripped onto his sandals, creating small splashes in the dust that eddied around his feet. I found I could not watch him lest I break down and fling myself from the litter and run away with him, and so I kept my eyes fixed ahead while he trudged beside. Now and then his breath caught with violence enough that I heard him, but he did not make a show of it.

He came with us all the way to Bahurim, where Abner and his forces waited to take us the rest of the way to Hebron. Abner strode over to us to get the report from Ish-Bosheth, gave me hardly a glance, and soon turned to Palti, who stood red-eyed and silent. "What are you doing here?" Abner demanded. "You disgrace yourself and everyone else with your weeping."

"I wish to accompany my wife to Hebron," Palti said, his voice strong and clear despite his distress.

Abner curled his lip. "She is not your wife. She is first wife to the king of Judah, and you will know your place if you know what's good for you. Go back home!"

Palti hesitated, and I finally met his gaze. "Go back," I said softly. "Wish your father well."

"Go or you'll regret it," Abner added, and I wished I could strike him, that he would not let it alone.

At last Palti stepped back, his feet dragging as though they were tied to millstones. "May the LORD shower you with blessings," he said at last, and he turned and walked away.

I did not watch him go, not with Abner's eyes on me like a hawk's, sharp and predatory; the more attachment I showed in front of him, the stronger any claim that Palti would be a danger to David's reign. I must protect him, and so I sat back and turned my gaze ahead. "Let us not linger," I said, and Abner nodded in approval. "If we are to be reunited, I would rather it be soon."

I glanced back once as the caravan moved on, and his form was naught but a small, dark spot on the horizon. It was the last time I would ever see my second husband.

Chapter Text

I had not expected a tearful reunion when I at last saw David again, but I did expect to see him. And yet when we arrived at Hebron, the steward informed me that David and his advisors had left for a meeting, and I would see him the next day. I would not be quartered in my husband's chambers as in days of old, either; instead I would live in a separate wing of the house with his other two wives, Abigail and Ahinoam.

My heart pounded in my chest as the servants escorted me to that section of the house. I could not imagine what the other two wives must think of me, whether they believed that I had chosen Palti and forsaken David of my own will, or in what manner and temperament I returned, and if they thought I planned to restore myself as David's first and therefore primary wife. I no longer felt the jealousy and animosity toward them that I once had, not since their suffering at the hands of the same Amalekites who had killed my father and my brothers; in truth, I hoped only that we might live in peace.

I saw them when I entered, beautiful women both, and I started to see that one of them held a small, chubby-faced baby boy in her lap. The child smiled toothlessly and waved a hand at me when I entered, and both women looked up. "Greetings, sisters," I said, unsure of how to proceed. Father had not married more than once, though of course he kept concubines, but while they lived with mother and me in the women's quarters of the palace, they never interacted with the women of the royal family. I had years of training behind me but none that had prepared me for this.

"If you think you'll merit the highest treatment because you were married first, you're mistaken," said one of them -- the woman without a child, beautiful and dark and well-accustomed to wielding the power of a mighty husband -- in a sharp, hard voice. She rose to her feet, posture defensive, and I almost looked to see whether she had a knife hidden in her sleeve. "You have been away. You have been the wife of another. You are here as a kindness, and to secure an alliance between Judah and Israel. David's personal loyalty no longer extends to you."

"I expect nothing," I said, surprise cooling my tone before anger fanned me into a temper. "I have been away, and the world has changed around me."

"Good," she said. "If we understand each other, then things will run much more smoothly."

"Abigail," said the other quietly, in a tone not quite chiding. Her features were not so striking as Abigail's, but her manner gentle, and it lent her a soft grace. "She has been uprooted. We should show pity."

"Pity? Pity for she who was thrust upon him and who abandoned him at the first opportunity? She who has lived in comfort and safety all these years, who has never known --" but Abigail stopped herself, clenching her teeth, and did not look at me. A thousand pains I would never understand flitted across her face before she swallowed them. "There is no pity to be had, and certainly none deserved."

"I ask for no pity," I said, my voice hardening. "I did not ask for things to happen any more than you, whatever has transpired. All I seek is harmony between us."

"He chose me," Abigail said, and in her voice I heard the mad scramble of desperation. Her husband had sent for his old wife -- how must that make her feel? Did she think herself a failure, that David wished to rekindle the flames of the past? Already Ahinoam had born a child, which placed her above Abigail in status. If I were to do the same -- "He chose me. I went against my husband for him, I risked my life to save my people, and he rewarded me with marriage. He too chose Ahinoam. You were an ill-presented gift. Do not think yourself our equal."

A hundred retorts presented themselves, but I saw the pain behind the fury in this woman's eyes, and I knew I could not hate her, as unjust her anger against me might be. I knew, too, that one day they would understand me; a small voice, an unworthy, petty voice, told me that a man who takes three wives will just as soon take eight, and perhaps one day they too would be supplanted. Her fears were unjustified now -- I knew my return to be political and nothing more -- but may not be forever.

"He is a delightful boy," I said to Ahinoam, for who else would the other woman be. "What is his name?"

Ahinoam brightened, even as Abigail's face darkened with a jealousy that crossed over beyond simple rivalry. She followed the child with hunger in her eyes; I knew without asking that she had lost a child, and late at that -- stillborn, or very nearly. My heart broke, but I would not dishonour Abigail by bringing attention to my questions. "His name is Amnon," she said, and the boy squealed and jammed a spit-covered fist in his mouth.

"An auspicious name," I said, presenting my hand to the child, who clutched at it with slimy fingers. "Let us hope he is faithful to the end of his days."

Let him not repeat the sins of his father, I thought but did not say. Let his name be a prophesy and not a sentence.

Abigail gave me another hard look, but she did not spit at me, and I could not expect much else. Ahinoam, at least, favoured me with a small smile. Amnon wiped his nose on my robe.

That night I ate with the other wives, mostly in silence, for Abigail had been cruelly used by life and did not welcome an intruder into the routine she had won for herself at great cost. I did not wish to fight her, not when I would be making life unpleasant for myself, and so I bore her dagger-stares and muttered remarks about my character. If I had been in her position, I doubted I would act any differently.

After the evening meal I retired to bathe, to scrub the last of the travel filth from my body. I had been reluctant to do so earlier, since it meant washing the last of Gallim from my skin, and I wished to keep it close, but I could not run forever. I most certainly could not refuse to cleanse myself ever again, and the long soak in the hot water did not ease my soul, but it did relax my aching joints. The passage of years had caused me to feel the wear of travel much more keenly than in my girlhood, though I did not wish to acknowledge such a thing.

I surprised myself with the extent of my calm, but then again, it was not so much a serenity of spirit as it was a lack of emotion altogether. No sorrow, no anger, no anticipation; I merely was, and everything flowed around me as though I were a pebble in a stream.

I had no news of whether David still loved me, if he had sought me for any other reason than to obtain a political match. No one gave me any clues, but the suspicion and wariness with which Abigail regarded me did make me wonder if perhaps David had not forgotten me after all. If she truly thought me nothing but a piece of chattel, traded back and forth between kings, she would not bother to tell me; there would be no honour in reminding me what I already knew. If, however, she feared that David's feelings for me had not diminished, but merely been mislaid, then that could explain the depths of her anger and fear.

I ran my fingers through my hair, teasing out the wet strands and combing through the tangles with my fingers. The outside breeze sat warm against my skin, and the scented oils dripped into the bathwater permeated the air. What if David did still love me? What if he wished to renew our married relationship, albeit split between two others? Was I even still capable of such a thing, or had the years of separation done too much damage? I had not known the touch of any man since that last brief, bruising kiss with David at my window. I could scarcely be expected to be as skillful a lover as the women who had been with him for a handful of years.

Time had passed and left its mark on me; while I was still young, I was not the woman scarcely out of girlhood who had flung herself into David's arms. Lines had begun to carve their paths in my skin -- delicate feathers at the outside corners of my eyes, two firm furrows between my brows -- and while I still retained my figure, the line from my waist to my hips did not have such a willowy flow as it once did.

For some time, as I combed oils through my hair and braided the strands together, I ran through various scenarios, teasing myself by imagining David flinging himself at my feet in apology, begging my forgiveness, praising my forbearance; I pictured myself both scorning and forgiving him, but after a while I gave up the entire endeavour. As a girl I entertained myself with such fancies; I could weave entire lifetimes out of possibility, and would be surprised to learn I could not clothe nor feed myself on dreams alone. But now, as I sat and spun the various possibilities, I found them dry and tasteless.

I could no longer take pleasure nor feel fear at hypotheticals. Whether David loved me or no, whether he asked my forgiveness or no, I could not bring myself to sit and puzzle over which direction our meeting would take. Worry would not bring me strength for the morrow, nor would it mitigate the circumstances one quadran.

Perhaps David did still love me; perhaps he would seek to redress the years of separation between us. Perhaps he would even succeed; I had loved him for years and years, and even now I sensed that the flame had not been quenched, merely buried. But though I gave myself ample opportunity, I could not bring myself to fuss and obsess as I had as a young girl.

Instead, I returned to my room, said my prayers, and went to bed. My final thought before sleep took me was not of my husband but of my sister, and if the news of the tragedy of our family had reached her.

David bore the kingship well; it suited him, as my mother used to say about a certain colour or fabric as she held this or that piece of cloth up to my eyes. He stood tall and regal, the thin gold circlet pushed back from his forehead, half hidden by his wild red curls so that he looked less a fearsome, solemn leader and more like a young, handsome man who had come to glory by accident. And yet, despite his youth, he did look a man, no longer a boy thrust into the path of glory and overawed at his good fortune. The years had left their imprint on his face as well, and I relaxed, if but a fraction. I had not aged while time stood still for him.

"Michal," David said, and he did not address me as his wife but did call me by name, a fair enough compromise given the length of time between our meetings. We were alone in his audience chamber, David seated on the throne and me standing in front of the dais. "My heart is eased to see you well."

For all my earlier serenity, irritation prickled through me now, but I swallowed it back. I inclined my head in a bow. "And I you. It's remarkable, really, given how many times the rumours have you flinging yourself headlong into danger."

David waved his hand, a gesture that I recognized as my father's even if he did not. It sat oddly in the pit of my stomach while I did my best to ignore it. "I did what I must. I am sorry that I could not send for you, but every time I thought of it, I found myself under attack again."

"No," I said, and for better or worse, I no longer blamed him for failing to come to me during his time in hiding. "I -- heard what happened to your other wives."

David's face turned dark, and for the first time in my life I saw him possessed with a deep rage. His fists curled, and the muscle in his jaw jumped until I thought it must cause him pain. "Those responsible were dealt with," he said in a low growl, and I would feel fear except I knew it would never, ever be directed at me. That level of hatred was reserved for the type of man who would violate innocent women over a grudge of men. "But yes, you see. I could not protect them even when I had established myself as a leader; if I had sent for you in my youth, I dare not think what would have happened. And then I heard that you had remarried --"

He trailed off, gaining control of his rage, and for a moment neither of us spoke until I realized he was waiting for an answer, for confirmation that I had or had not chosen Palti on my own. I could not decide which option he would prefer; if the injury of his wife abandoning him in his time of exile would help him justify his decisions and subsequent new wives, or if he would rather my father be responsible for all that had happened.

I measured my responses for a good moment, weighing the import and his possible reactions to each, but in the end, I decided I did not wish to clear up the mystery whatsoever. "Indeed," I said, allowing my expression to reveal nothing.

David let the pause lengthen until it filled the room, but I refused to choke on it, to let the pressure build and force me to speak. At last David cleared his throat and continued. "I would like to make up the years between us," he said finally. "You are my wife, and I did not bring you back never to speak to you again."

My mouth thinned. "And why, then, did you bring me back? If it was not so you might have control over the last remaining children of Saul."

This time David frowned. "Must it be one or the other? I might want my wife at my side and also be wary of having Saul's descendants at large, at the mercy of anyone who might wish to control them. What would you have done if Abner had sought to control you himself, instead of pass you back to me?"

I shook my head. "I will not engage in this sort of game; it serves no purpose and will only dredge up fear and bitterness. I am here, that is the end. Now the only remaining question is what you wish to do with me. You already have a son, and I think you have also lost one; do you wish me to give you another?"

"No," David said immediately, so quickly that I raised an eyebrow, and he had the good grace to look shamefaced. He did not want any more children coming from the house of Saul, that I could read even with no intimate knowledge of his thoughts. "No, I did not bring you back to be my broodmare," he continued, recovering admirably. "I will not lie with you if you do not wish it; I am not a monster, and you are no possession."

So that was it; I would be a prisoner in my own home, an asset to be managed and used instead of left wild and unpredictable on my own, but he would not force himself upon me, would not demand the rights over my body afforded him by our marriage contract. I could, if I wished, end my era of celibacy without attracting any ill will from the LORD, for David was my legal husband, bound to me until death.

For a moment I considered accepting his gesture and allowing him back into my bed, and thus my heart. We could weave ourselves back together, and if we could not truly become one flesh while he split himself among three women and I left a part of myself behind in Gallim, we could at least do our best with what we had. He had always been a skillful lover and I an apt pupil; doubtless the years of separation would only fan the fire, if we allowed it.

And yet. I had managed this long without the touch of a man, and when I tried to imagine renewing our affections, I felt nothing more than an emptiness in my gut. "If I wish it, I will tell you," I said at last. David's face twisted, but he did not argue. He only nodded and gave me permission to leave.

Abigail waited for me in the women's quarters, and though she twisted her expression into a sneer, she could not manage it with total sincerity. Apprehension tightened the corners of her eyes, and her lips trembled as she pressed them flat. "Well?" she asked. "Was it productive?"

I stopped walking and studied her. Abigail had likely been married to Nabal at a young age at the behest of someone other than her own, for word of Nabal's greed and wickedness had spread through the lands long before his death. She had saved her household and her people from destruction through an act of intelligence and courage, far greater stakes than my standing up to my father. By comparison, my assisting in David's escape through the window could be likened to pouring a cupful of wine into the flowing Jordan.

"Abigail," I said slowly, and she narrowed her eyes at me but did not brush me away. "You have nothing to fear from me. I do not seek to claim the position of first wife, nor will I bear any sons that would place me above you. I have no quarrel with you, and I hope that in time, you will find none with me."

Abigail blinked at me as though we sat in a room filled with guttering, smoky candles. "Then why did you return, if not to reclaim your rights?" she asked, rallying, but weakly.

I hesitated, for in a house of women no secrets remained as such for long, but if I was to live with them I could not keep myself closed off forever. "He sent for me," I said. "I did not ask to come. Do not let the circumstances make us enemies when there is no reason for us to be. If you ever seek counsel or companionship, I hope you will find me. You are the bravest and cleverest of us, I think, but that can be lonely. I lost my brothers and I miss my sister; I would like to have another."

Abigail did not answer, and because I did not expect her to fling her arms around my neck and pronounce us intimate acquaintances, I was not disappointed. I smiled at her, nodded, and took my leave. I did not turn to see whether she watched me, but I thought the tension in the air had lessened.

In time, I thought. Perhaps in time.

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.