Chapter 8 | The Madness

I storm past the guards and clip around the corner. They don't try to stop me. I don't blame them. I must look horrifying. The anger pulsing through my face radiates from my cheeks as it carves deep crevices in my forehead.

I am beyond furious. I'm not exactly sure what I will do once I see him. I hadn't planned that far ahead. As soon as I heard what he had done I hastened toward the palace, leaving any reason at home.

I catch a glimpse of his chamber doors several paces down the long corridor and my footsteps begin to slow. Someone is outside the King's chambers; a group of guards forms a protective cluster around them. I approach cautiously and the nearer I get I start to hone in on the person's voice.

The high and clear tone tells me it belongs to a woman and she is obviously upset about something. The woman speaking snarls at her guard and whips her long neck in my direction. My eyes widen as she focuses in on me.

"Has the King called for his whore now?"

Her smooth bronze skin cracks as she smiles at me. A laugh escapes her lips. I remain silent. I have seen her before when I first came to the palace. This is Michal: The King's first wife and the daughter of the first King. She has the power here. I am nothing. So, I don't respond.

"What in heaven's name are you doing here, anyway?!"

"Michal!"

All eyes shift to the double doors of the King's chambers, which are now suddenly open. A woman with fair and plump features exits into the hallway. I stare at her with intrigue, wondering who she could be. Her light brown hair is covered with violet silk, her hands adorned with rings. The way she holds her head up high as she addresses Michal tells me that she is an equal to her.

"Watch your tongue. We are royalty and should act accordingly. Besides, heaven's eyes are always upon us and God is no respecter of persons."

Michal scoffs and snatches the billowing fabric trailing down the back of her dress as she turns around.

"I will never understand you, Abigail. Defending our husband's whore after all the years we have spent imprisoned in the palace together?! Is there no loyalty among wives?"

Abigail. The King's second wife. Stories have spread across the kingdom of her gentle character and her bright mind. As Michal disappears with her guards down the hall Abigail turns to face me. She offers me a sympathetic smile as she motions for me to approach her.

"She was unkind to you," She says gently.

I nod my head.

Abigail's green eyes take me in slowly. I feel insecure as they travel down my frame soaking in every detail.

"How far along are you?"

My eyes widen.

"Don't be afraid. I have a keen eye on these things. Besides, you are glowing."

"I- I'm not sure," I finally spew.

She nods her head and hums to herself. Something inside me tells me that she knows. Perhaps it is the way her eyes gloss over or how her cheeks sink in slightly as she listens to me struggle for words. She knows it is her husband's child growing inside of me but still she remains kind despite the sadness I'm sure is consuming her.

"Well, I'm sure you would like to see the King now. That is why you are here, of course?"

"Yes."

I try to calm my racing heart and swallow the lump that has formed in my throat. She looks through the double doors and I notice that for a brief sliver of a moment, her smile fades and a sadness sinks behind her eyes before she faces me again.

"He's alone."

I clear my throat and swivel on my heels towards the entrance to his chamber. I listen to her soft footfall as she makes her way towards the opposite end of the corridor. Before she slips out of my sight I call out to her, "Thank you."

She dips her head towards me in a polite acknowledgment. I step inside the familiar room. My eyes drift immediately upwards, searching for anywhere else to look instead of at him. He seems to be preoccupied with something and doesn't seem to notice my presence. I finally get up enough courage to steal a glance of him.

He seems enthralled with the scrolls beneath his fingers. His head moves back and forth as he reads whatever is inscribed on the parchment.

"How could you," I finally say.

He groans to himself and lifts his fingers from the table causing the scroll to roll up on its own. He finally regards me. His eyes, I notice, are streaked red, and the skin underneath is puffy and dark. When was the last time he slept?

"What do you mean?"

He presses his hands against the edge of the table as he slouches forward. With slow, uneasy steps he makes his way toward a chair by the side of his bed. He moans in discomfort as he sinks into it.

"Uriah. He was here. Why didn't you let me see him? Why didn't you let him come to me?!"

He waves his hand at me weakly. His heavy eyelids droop closed.

"Stop."

I lunge forward, the fire in the pit of my stomach not ceasing, despite his command for it to be quenched.

"He has been away fighting in your name for months! Do you know how much I have missed him?" My voice wavers. "It would have been no trouble for you to let him spend a day with his wife."

"I said stop."

Tears start to spring from my eyes. I ignore the familiar sting.

"How could you send him to fight a war that he might not come back from without allowing us an embrace... I wouldn't have minded if I only got to look upon his face. That would have been enough for me."

I gasp, startled, when he bursts from his chair. He obliterates the space between us and I must tilt my head back as he towers over me.

"I said enough," He spits. I can feel the heat of his breath against my forehead. His blazing eyes twitch as he glares at me.

"You missing him is the last thing I want to hear about. If you want to be angry with someone be angry at him. I told him to go home, but he refused. He said it was not fair to his men for him to sleep with his wife while they continued to risk their lives."

"You're jealous of him..." The realization dawns on me.

"As you should be, my Lord. For he is a thousand times the man you could ever wish to be."

Scowling at me the whole time, the King backs away and settles in his chair. I struggle to make sense of the madness as hot, angry tears spill onto my cheeks.