The Prince's Concubine

12: A night in his bed

Bilhah lay still, listening to the scratch of his pen and wondering at the irony that her only night in the Palace, her only night in his bed, should be spent in exactly the same way as the previous six nights with Holy Mother. She did not know what the morning would bring, or where she would rest her head when the next night followed it, but she prayed the Goddess would watch over her. She would follow the path set before her. Who knows where it might lead? Perhaps one day, many years from now, she would tell her children about this night. Tell of how she met their King, of how he sat up all night so she could sleep, of how he asked her to speak his name.

The warm glow of the thought muddled with the joy of knowing his compassion was true, the disappointment of her failure, and the uncertain fear from the loss of her calling. The bittersweet marbling of emotions threatened to withhold sleep from her, but soon enough their strength overwhelmed her with sheer exhaustion. The soft bed carried her down into unconsciousness.

A crash jolted her from sleep. An angry male voice yelling curses filled her with momentary terror until she remembered where she was. The Prince was standing by his desk, snatching papers from the tide of ink dripping down the slope.

"Damn, three letters ruined! Worker! That's half a bell's effort wasted."

Bilhah sat up in bed, clutching the sheet against her as her eyes adjusted to the lamplight. The ink bottle lay smashed beside the desk, a dark pool spreading across the floor. Apart from the lamplight the room was dark. It must be the middle of the night, some time between one day's tenth bell and the next day's first.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm sorry I woke you. I must have fallen asleep and knocked the ink over. Worker, it's everywhere!"

"Shall I help you?"

"No, it's all right. And don't worry, your paper's safe. Just as well, I've no ink left to write another. Worker!" He found a rag and tried to mop the worst of the mess from his desk.

"You're tired. Please, won't you take the bed? I can sleep on the floor."

"No, you need it more than me. I'll send for more ink. And more paper. The desk will dry. I'll be fine."

He didn't look fine. He looked exhausted. Ink was splattered across his shirt, and half the desk was black with it. How could she deny him rest by taking his bed? An idea occurred to her, an idea so forward it could have come out of Devorah's mouth. It would surely have seemed ridiculous in the light of the daytime, but under the veil of night it seemed sensible enough to lend her voice to it. "It's a large bed. I'm sure we could both sleep in it without disturbing one another."

He stared at her, frowning, papers in one hand and rag in the other. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I trust you. And I'm already uncomfortable taking your bed from you. Please, won't you rest?"

He hesitated a moment more, before putting the papers down. "Well, if you're sure?"

"I am."

He disappeared behind the screen. Bilhah heard water being poured into the bowl, then splashing as he washed. Even quiet sounds were clear in the darkness. She heard his towel drop to the floor. His clothes rustling as he changed. His sigh as put aside the cares of the day and prepared for sleep.

He snuffed out the lamp behind the screen, then walked across the room, his feet falling softly on the floor. His night clothes were loose and flowed as he moved, cream cloth trailing over the warm brown of his skin. He had his mother's easy grace, but a squareness about his shoulders that was far from feminine. Bilhah watched as he snuffed another lamp on the desk, and a third on the chest of drawers, leaving just two flames burning to hold back the darkness. It felt like a long time until he finally approached the bed and folded back the covers. She felt the mattress dip as it took his weight. He lay down, as far away from her on the other side as he could be. He patted the pillow before resting his head on it, turning his face away from her, and sighed again.