Free Love’s Sacred Song by Mesu Andrews

me out.” Smoldering, the prince fell silent, and Ahishar continued. “A loyal servant reported that Solomon had spoken of his sympathy for Abishag’s plight. She will live in the harem of David’s women, never to marry or bear children because King David made Solomon vow that he would never bed Abishag or any of his women.”
    Adonijah lifted a single eyebrow. “So why would Solomon give one of Abba’s women to me?”
    “The same servant has observed Bathsheba’s jealousy of the girl Abishag. David’s queen knows her son shares his abba’s lust for beauty. She will be your ally, my lord, to remove this lovely temptation from Solomon’s presence.” Ahishar paused to allow the prince a moment’s consideration, hoping beyond hope Adonijah would show the same shortsighted ambition that foiled his first coup. “You could win Bathsheba’s goodwill and steal one of Solomon’s treasures.”
    The two men shared a conspiratorial smile. “Abishag is quite beautiful,” Adonijah said. “But what makes you think Solomon would agree to give her to me?”
    “King Solomon cannot have her because of his promise to your abba, and the king’s tender heart will be moved by Bathsheba’s argument for the girl’s happiness.” Pausing only a moment, he added, “We both know your brother can’t deny a pleading woman.”
    Adonijah crossed his arms and then cupped his chin, deep in thought. “All right. I’ll do it!” he said with boyish delight.
    “I believe you should go at once, my lord, to speak with Bathsheba. I’m sure she’s still awake. Who can sleep with this constant droning of mourners?”
    Ahishar bowed to the prince and remained in the penitent position until he heard Adonijah’s footsteps retreating across the marble floor. Lifting his head, he reveled in almost certain victory. Yes, foolish prince, Bathsheba will hear your request. She may even present it to her son. Then you’ll face Solomon’s fury, and I’ll once again be the undisputed leader of the Sons of Judah.

7
    •  1 Kings 2:13  •
    Now Adonijah, the son of Haggith, went to Bathsheba, Solomon’s mother. Bathsheba asked him, “Do you come peacefully?”
    B athsheba yawned and snuggled into her double-stuffed woolen mattress. She hadn’t slept since . . . well, she couldn’t remember when she last laid on a sleeping couch. After David’s death this morning, she had joined the servants in preparing his body for burial. It was one of the last times she’d ever see her beloved husband’s earthly shell. The thought pierced her.
    After she had helped the servants wash, wrap, and anoint David’s body for burial, Solomon had seen her exhaustion and begged her to remain at the palace rather than return to her private home on the western ridge. She recognized the same weariness on his face and agreed. Glancing around the large, ornately decorated private chamber, she wished she’d returned home. This newly constructed chamber in David’s harem was lovely, filled with fine linen, pottery, and trinkets from distant lands. But she’d escaped the confines of harem life years ago when David built her private home. It was the grandest house in Israel, but David had called it their shepherd’s hut because it was secluded and peaceful, and during the hours he visited there, he could forget palace life.
    Tonight, staring out this ivory-latticed window, she wished she could forget palace life and sleep. She tried counting stars. Before that, she’d counted sheep, goats, even herding dogs. But sleep was a miser unwilling to share its peace. Her mind whirred with memories of this morning’s bittersweet moments. She remembered Solomon’s tormented features, watching his abba slip away, but she also recalled David’s confidence in their wise son’s ability to rule.
    Then came the dagger to her heart. The beautiful Shulammite lying atop David. Warming him. Caressing him. Loving him.
    Tears wet her pillow. I could have warmed him like