Free Love’s Sacred Song by Mesu Andrews Page A

that—before five children rounded my figure. She knew the thought was ridiculous. David loved her. She’d always known she was his favorite, but sharing her husband with other women still tormented her. Why must a king rule first and love last?
    When David took Bathsheba from her first husband, Uriah, she knew that a relationship with the king of Israel would never be normal. But when David’s love for her blossomed, she consoled herself thinking, Other women share his body, but I possess his heart. And when their son Solomon was named his successor, she knew that she had won not only David’s heart but also Jehovah’s favor.
    Then the Shulammite arrived.
    Abishag’s presence had not only shaken the foundation of David’s love for her, it had unsettled an already boiling pot of unrest in the northern tribes. Had Jehovah removed his blessing too?
    She snuggled further under a lion-skin cover that David had given her years ago and breathed in the musky scent of her husband. Thankful now that she hadn’t taken all of her personal items to her private home, she listened to the hum of midnight mourning and squeezed her eyes shut. She dreaded tomorrow. Solomon would lead the burial procession to their family’s tomb, and she would follow him on a white donkey. Her eldest son would be the king of Israel—alone, without his abba to guide him.
    Can Solomon stem the tide of unrest in the north? Her heart pounded, and she tried to calm herself, recalling David’s affirmation of his wisdom. But who will our son turn to for guidance now that you’re gone, my love? she asked the memory of her beloved. Fresh tears rolled onto her pillow as fear battled with despair.
    Their quiet, intellectual son was indeed wise, as David pointed out, but he was young and easily distracted by beauty. Bathsheba remembered how impressed David had been when Solomon suggested the conquered Ammonites serve as temple construction laborers, their work to be considered a portion of their vassal payment. She also remembered David’s frustration when Solomon’s desires squelched his judgment, and their son took the Ammonite princess, Naamah, to be his wife.
    Bathsheba squeezed her eyes shut at the memory. “You are too much like your abba,” she whispered in the darkness. “You can’t take a woman simply because she pleases you.”
    Solomon had watched Abishag with the same growing fascination. David had recognized it too and challenged their son to rise above the temptation that had almost destroyed his kingdom—and nearly withered his soul. Solomon had promised he wouldn’t bed any of his abba’s women.
    “You promised, my son. You promised,” she whispered.
    Just then she heard a faint tapping on her door. Puzzled, she wondered who would disturb her this late. “Who is it?”
    The iron hinges creaked, and Bathsheba’s handmaid peeked through the narrow opening. “My lady,” she whispered, “please forgive me for intruding, but—”
    “Come in, Dalit. I wasn’t sleeping.”
    The old woman’s round face glowed with kindness regardless of the hour. “I have some troubling news, my lady, but I’ve already called for an escort of Benaiah’s Cherethite guards to attend us .”
    Bathsheba’s heart pounded. Dear Dalit had been her childhood nurse and was no stranger to peril. It had been Dalit who delivered the news that Bathsheba’s first husband had been killed in battle—at David’s sly command. “What is it, Dalit? What’s happening?”
    “Prince Adonijah has returned from En Rogel, and he’s asked to see you immediately.”
    “At this hour?” Fear sliced through her, cutting off her ability to think clearly. “No! I won’t see him! Have the escort prepare my donkey to return home.” Bathsheba leapt from her bed and reached for her sackcloth robe and slippers.
    Dalit reached out to steady her. “Bathsheba.” The use of her familiar name startled her but cleared her mind to hear Dalit’s words. “I don’t know what