The Gaze of a King

Chapter Eleven | Ahithophel the Wise

As I slowly sip from my goblet of wine, I avoid the glaring eyes burning holes through my skin. King David seems to be unaware of the blazing stares cast my way. He seems oblivious to the shame and disgrace he has publically shown his first wife Michal, by having me sit at his right side. The air is rife with tension.

If looks could kill, I would be drowning in a pool of blood at Michal's feet. Her eyes are not the only pair that I intentionally avoid, though. My grandfather sits at the end of the table, confusion clouding his grey eyes. He signals for one of his servants, and conceals his cracked lips as he inquires of them any gossip they have overheard. It is all in an effort to piece together the puzzle I have presented him by my presence.

I do not want to see the light of recognition that shines in his eyes when he learns the truth. I cannot bear to see the disappointment that will deepen the creases on his forehead and around his lips. Instead, I pretend to be fully amused by the delicacies on my plate, though the very sight of food sends a wave of nausea through me.

I feign interest in the tale that King David theatrically recounts to those feasting at his table. When I do dare to shift my eyes, I catch sight of Abigail. She offers me a sympathetic smile. Seated next to her is Princess Tamar, a slender girl with golden hair braided down her back. She picks at her plate demurely, as if wanting to disappear from the dinner as badly as I do.

To her left is a broad-shouldered, brooding figure, with hooded eyes and dark shaggy hair. He looms over the Princess protectively, as only a big brother could do. He is one of David's eldest sons, Absalom. He leans over to her and whispers something discreetly in her ear. A pink blush warms her cheeks, coaxing a satisfied grin to spread across Absalom's face.

A serving girl leans over me and tops off my goblet, then slips into the background, disappearing from the room. As I take another sip, a tingle travels down my spine. I feel the King's heated breath grazing my skin.

"I will summon you to my chambers later," He whispers into my ear.

It wasn't a request. I excuse myself from the table, a surge of bile traveling up my throat. I ignore the looks I receive from my early departure, particularly my grandfather's. It takes everything within me to walk with graceful, controlled steps. I keep any sign of distress from contorting my face, forcing the vomit down until I am free of scrutinizing eyes. Once I round the corner, I double over, my body shuddering as I shed the contents of my stomach.

~*~*~*~

Night falls over the palace, and true to his word, the King summons me. Warily, I make my way to his chambers. I turn down several lengthy corridors, following the elongated shadow cast in front of me. Then I notice the sound of another's footsteps joining in with the measured clicks of my dainty feet. I cautiously pivot on my heels.

"Grandfather," I whisper into the crisp night air. He surveys the area to the right and left as he approaches me. He does not say a word, only motions to me with his hands to follow. He leads me into a quaint room, bare of any furnishings except a slender bed and lampstand. It is a stark contrast to my lavish chambers.

"I was surprised by your appearance at dinner, especially at the seat of honor you occupied. I waited until nightfall to call upon you but you were not in your chambers. I asked one of your maidservants and she informed me that the king had summoned you to him."

I fold my hands in front of me, unsure of what to say. He releases a deep sigh, then sinks gradually onto his bed, steadying himself by clasping his knees.

"I assume you know," I finally say when the silence becomes too much.

"I would have rather heard it from you."

I purse my lips, still avoiding his penetrating gaze.

"Uriah died. Our family was in mourning. It was never the right time, grandfather."

He strokes his beard with his vascular and splotchy hands.

"This scandal will destroy our family name- but you can change that, Bathsheba. You must make him love you. If you hold his favor... no one will be able to touch us."

"I don't want his love! I want Uriah!"

Tears well in my eyes. A lump forms in my throat. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears.

"Uriah is dead and you may very well be next. You don't have to love him, but if you value your life then assure his affections for you. He summoned you to his chambers tonight. This is your opportunity to turn the tide in your favor. Now, go to him. He is not patient as of late."

"And these are the words of advice of Ahithophel the Wise," I mutter sardonically under my breath. There is nothing more for either one of us to say. Although, he is right about one thing; my presence is anxiously anticipated by the King.

Stunned, I turn and leave. I shake my head, trying to force the conversation from my mind. The King may own my body, but he will never own my heart.

I do not think I am strong enough to do what he says. My heart is too weak, heavy from the weight of Uriah's death. The King's chambers aren't far from the humble quarters my grandfather occupies, and I arrive there shortly. I take a deep breath before entering, bracing myself.