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.