Abigail's Story by Ann Burton Page A

children to renew the blood of the family. Brides were dressed with great care, draped in fine linen and gold collars, their skins rubbed with costly unguents, and their hands and feet tinted red to befit the crossing from maiden to wife.
    Here in the house of Nabal, the priest’s intonations sounded lifeless and hollow, echoing as they did within the nearly empty room. My husband-to-be seemed bored as he listened to the priest recite vows that would bind me to Nabal of Maon forever.
    Each word burned into my heart like a flint brand. You will take this woman to wife. You will give her home and children. You will protect her and keep her.
    Nabal did not wish to make such promises, that much was obvious. He snapped out his vows as if he resented being made to say them. He complained about a fly that happened into the room and stoppedthe ceremony until one of the servants killed it. When the contract of marriage was brought for his mark, he made his mark at the bottom of the parchment too small, and had to make it a second time. He complained about that, too, and then had to have his hands washed again.
    His behavior was atrocious, and so shameful my face remained red throughout the ceremony. By the time the priest was finished, I was full ready to weep, such was the embarrassment I felt.
    The priest had far better manners and only showed a glimmer of distaste as he rolled up the contract and handed it to my husband’s steward.
    â€œAre we done?” Nabal demanded.
    â€œWait for the blessing,” Amri snapped back at him.
    â€œMay the Adonai bless you with many sons, healthy herds, and fruitful pastures,” he said as he waved a handful of seedpods over my head, and then Nabal’s. “May you protect that which is yours. You belong to each other now, husband and wife.”
    Amri came forward to congratulate us, but he was very stiff and showed his dislike plainly. “You are a fortunate man, Master Nabal. I wish you receive all that you deserve.”
    I winced. His words were not exactly a blessing.
    My new husband’s upper lip curled. “May you have a double measure of what you wish for me.”
    The spice merchant turned to me. “Abigail, you are not to worry. Cetura will look after your kin.”
    I knew Cetura would see to my parents’ comfort,but that still left the problems with Rivai. Without strong guidance, he would surely fall in with the wrong sort again and put Cetura and my family at terrible risk.
    â€œMy brother could use some new friends. Someone who understands beauty, and can provide ways for him to sell his art. Perhaps a shrewd merchant who has no son of his own.” I gazed up at him. “What do you think?”
    The spice merchant said nothing for a long time, and then he muttered, “I think you could sell sand to one dying of thirst in the middle of the desert.”
    My mouth curved. “I was taught by the finest of teachers.”
    The steward came forward and led Amri from the room.
    I was married, and my family was safe.
    At last Nabal stirred and rose from his chair. The scent of the oil that slicked his chest and feet was almost overpowering, and his small eyes gleamed as his soft hand took my arm. “Come, wife.”
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    Cetura had told me that husbands guided their new wives in their intimate duties, as most men had some experience with the matter.
    â€œBe calm and quiet and do as he wishes,” was her final advice. “Men know what is to be done, and he will likely make it quick for you.”
    I managed to hold my tongue as I went with Nabal to what I guessed was his sleeping chamber. It was nearly as large as my parents’ entire house, but muchmore richly furnished. The two bed slaves lay sleeping on the mound of pillows and furs that was apparently his bed. Their mouths hung wet and slack as they snored, and the thing responsible for their deep slumber—a large, empty wine jug—lay on its side between