Becoming Queen Bathsheba

A Christian fiction novel that tells the story of the life, trials and ultimate triumph of a woman in a man’s world. From defilement to death, and finally, Queen Mother – follow the journey about the start of an extraordinary generation.

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Description

Bathsheba is taken against her will by the most powerful man in Israel. A month later, she discovers she carries the evidence of their secret, dangerous encounter. With her husband at war, this pregnancy could mean her death or untold greatness. When the king finds out that she is with child, he immediately summons her husband home from war, a cunning plan in mind.

  • Will the king's plan work?
  • Will her life be spared?
  • Will there be any consequences for the injustice?
  • Will love grow in the middle of pain and give birth to second chances?

This novel is a fictional retelling of one of the greatest Bible stories of all time. This is a story of injustice, betrayal, deception, heartbreak, forgiveness, love, redemption and second chances.

It reminds us that there are consequences for our choices, and we serve a God of justice.  He can use the tragedies in our lives and turn them into purpose.

No pain is ever wasted with God.

Betrayal & Pain

Becoming Queen Bathsheba covers a harrowing tale of heartbreak, betrayal and pain. From the pain of powerlessness; succumbing to the whims of men and kings, to the burn of betrayal and knowing that a singular act has changed your life forever – perhaps to the point of death.

Love

Surpassing all, greater than all the ambitions of the characters in this book, love shows up over and again to conquer fear, hate, evil, betrayal and doubt. What started as a result of a self-seeking act, becomes an illustration of love at work.

Redemption

From redeeming a woman that would have been destined to die a defiled widow, to the redeeming love of God, Becoming Bathsheba tells a story of flaws, penance, forgiveness and redemption.

It’s easy to see how Amanda Bedzrah is an award-winning writer. Entertaining from start to finish.

Viva Naija

A luxurious style of storytelling where you’re sucked in very quickly – and gladly too.

Estee Ekpene

Meet The Characters

Queen BathshebaA wife, a widow, a queen

Wife to Uriah the Hittite, one of the king’s Thirty, Bathsheba is happy with her position in life. Secure in her husband’s love and the happy union they have created, she lives with but one goal to achieve: to birth a child for her husband and continue with their blissful lives.

Her tranquillity is smashed with one brutal act and her life changes forever. Follow her story as she grows from sheltered wife to grief-stricken widow, to the position of the most powerful woman in Israel.

King DavidGood people do bad things

A ruler after God’s heart – blessed beyond measure and favoured at home and in battle – David allows momentary weakness to change the course of his dynasty forever, bringing strife to his household, but unimaginable love to his heart. Driven by lust, he sins against his trusted official, his official’s wife, and his God.

From the arrogance of a king’s power, to total submission to the will of his God, to the tender recipient of a woman’s love, follow king David as his actions changed him, then shaped him for better, forever.

AnushkaFrom slavery to God’s love

Can God use a slave girl to carry out His will? When her mistress is at her darkest hour, Anushka’s intelligence, compassion and unwavering loyalty helps her mistress to navigate the treacherous void between life and death for carrying a child not belonging to her husband, and, in turn, ultimately leads Anushka herself to God.

Amanda Bedzrah

Inspiring Novelist and Award-Winning Author

Amanda Bedzrah is an award-winning author, with much of her work grounded in the redeeming, empowering and transformative power of God’s love. Her debut book, The Love That Set Me Free was met with critical acclaim, with readers recognising themselves — and finding healing — through her autobiographical account of childhood abuse, suppression and trauma. 

Since then, she has authored several instructional guides for living life fully according to God’s will including: 5 Habits of Godly Resilient Women, Overcoming the Fear of Death, and Praying Proverbs. She has also designed and published two journals for developing the art of kindness. 

Becoming Queen Bathsheba is her second piece of Christian fiction, following on from the successful Leah. It is set to become another bestseller in a series of novels based on Women in the Bible.

Book Reviews

What People Are Saying

Rachel OnamusiViva Naija

I have never known the story of David and Bathsheba to be told with such honesty, heart and fairness. Amanda Bedzrah’s telling of a story of savage force that ends in love sweeps you away to another place and time, shedding light on the reality of women’s lives along the way. It also tells how things can all work out for good when God is involved. I thought I knew this story; I thought wrong!

Amanda is a consummate storyteller. Looking forward to reading her other Christian fiction books!

Christa Randall

A friend told me about Becoming Queen Bathsheba and I decided to fill a lazy, rainy weekend reading it. I devoured it in one sitting, unable to do anything else as I turned from bath-house to humble abode to palace. The writer catches you up in the story, making you sense the danger, the grief and the love in all the right places. I would utterly recommend this for anyone into Christian fiction, particularly if you like the romantic sub-genre. A must-read!

Zahra Frost

This book is such an exciting discovery! I’m reading Becoming Queen Bathsheba right now, and I’m enjoying both the author’s perspective and way the story is unfolding. I love that I am caught up in all the drama, even though I know what should happen next. Simply written; powerfully moving. I’m here for it!

Kyla East

In a sub-genre that’s already rather crowded and a story that has been told countless times, Becoming Queen Bathsheba is a refreshingly honest, interesting and insightful read. Where many authors glaze over Bathsheba’s experience and the real sense of betrayal she must have felt and the danger she was in, Amanda Bedzrah dwells in that space of being a woman without a voice in a world where men rule and women pay the price. What is a few lines in the Bible is actually the disruption of a woman’s life, her future, and her destiny. I thoroughly enjoyed this. Well done!

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Amanda Bedzrah

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Author. Speaker. Prayer Minister. Bible Teacher.
Founder – Empower A Woman

 

Amanda Bedzrah | All Rights Reserved

Becoming Queen Bathsheba

AMANDA BEDZRAH
EVELYN HOUSE PUBLISHING

Copyright © AMANDA BEDZRAH 2022

Evelyn House Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-8383044-5-4

Editor: Wendy H. Jones

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission, in writing, from the author and publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction, based on the Bible story in the book of 2 Samuel, and should be read as such. There is no intention from the author to suggest this story is historical fact. Readers are encouraged to read the Bible.

Acknowledgments

A book like this cannot be written except by the grace of the Almighty God. Without Him, this book would only be a dream
in my heart. I am thankful and truly humbled that God entrusted me with this story and gave me the courage to be firm in my convictions, to listen to His promptings as He whispered thoughts and ideas for this book.

I want to say thank you to my husband, Francois, and our three children. Your love and understanding enabled me to hide away many days and nights to write, your support and encouragement was the fuel I needed to keep going. I love you all so much.

I also want to say a huge thank you to my sisters, Efe and Eruke. Your consistent love and support are unrivalled. You girls make life so much easier, and you have been with me each step of the way, praying for this book, and listening to all my worries and concerns. Thank you so much.

To my dear girlfriends, you are my biggest cheerleaders. You know that I am so thankful for you all.

To my spiritual mums and mentors – Carol Bostock and Rev. Victoria Lawrence, your prayers and words of encouragement have carried me through this journey. I am forever thankful.

To every woman who has been deeply wounded, know that we serve a God of justice and restoration. He will give you beauty instead of ashes.

prologue

c.990 BCE Jerusalem
United Kingdom of Israel

As the sun fades in the sky, I sit rocking gently, gazing out of the vast window of the King’s inner chamber and watching hints of orange flicker over golden brown clouds. My son suckles at my breast on this night before his first year on earth. The banquet room is already laid out: one hundred seats at the table, with the finest silver and gold plates, cups and cutlery at each place. The guests will arrive early next day, travelling from near and far, some for days, honouring the King’s invitation.

One hundred lambs were slaughtered earlier this day; the night is still thick with the fire from the smoke used to roast them in preparation for the morning. A seamstress arrived from Egypt more than a month ago, to sew the woven fabric for every royal in the house.

Though the sun is setting, the King is still on the throne, attending to matters of the nation of Israel. I am alone in his private quarters in the West wing of the palace. I look around me; the room is huge and quiet. How did I get here? I have asked myself this question at least a million times. Each time I try to think about it I am faced with painful memories. I paid a huge price for the crown that rests on my head. The more I think, the more I come to realize the cost, the pain, the sacrifice — the truth. Buried within my soul are words I have dared not speak or imagine; and yet, are dying to break free. Perhaps, someone somewhere may find comfort in my truth, in my journey, in my pain to becoming the woman I am today. It is for this reason I allow my mind to run freely today, closing my eyes and thinking back to three years previously, to the day it all began. I must remember, and I must write it down.

I place my son in the large woven basket filled with the softest wool blankets and equally soft cushions: I walk over to the large desk where paper and ink wait for me. I pick up the pen. I dip it in the ink. I apply it to the parchment… It is time to tell my story.

chapter one

It has been many weeks since I last saw my husband Uriah, who was away in battle, fighting to protect the nation of Israel. Sadly, this was not the first time he had been gone for more days than I could count — a situation to which I never became accustomed. Many years ago, when we were first married, we had one glorious, uninterrupted year together. According to our custom, no man was sent to war or put to work during this time; a custom which allowed us to enjoy our time as man and wife: our love grew deep.

As a trusted warrior for King David, Uriah has been in more battles than most other soldiers. One of the King’s Thirty, chosen under oath and appointed by the King himself. This was one of the things I loved most about him. How ironic that the best part of him seemed to be the worst part — both a blessing and a curse! Uriah worked harder than all the others to be chosen as one of the Thirty. He had to! As a foreigner from the far region of the Hittites, he first had to prove himself loyal to our God, then to the Crown, and, lastly, to the people of Israel. It did not matter that he could swing the sword with ease and precision; it mattered more who it was pointed at, and it took him many years to establish the trust required to be accepted into the army of God, Yahweh as I fondly call Him.

I loved the way he loved his job. The pride in his face when he told me stories about the battles he fought, the places he visited, and the victories they enjoyed was always the highlight of his return. I enjoyed every minute of it, hanging on his every word. These stories, good or bad, all fascinated me.

My grandfather Ahithopel, who I called Saba, was one of the King’s chief advisors; my father, Eliam, was also one of the Thirty. So, I grew up hearing war stories and tales from lands far away. My mother, unlike me, did not like the war stories. I was different to most women all of whom detested the sight of blood or description of battle. I loved to hear every minute detail and Uriah spared nothing. He told stories in such a way that I felt I was riding a horse on the battle ground, in the middle of a war fighting for my life, hearing the clashing of swords and the cries of battle, the iron smell of spilled blood filling my nostrils. Fear clutched at my chest almost stopping my heart beating.

These stories were not always of victory. As with every nation there were instances of defeat, which meant periods of mourning followed. Those stories were the hardest to tell but still he told them, sometimes after he washed the taste of battle from his mouth with wine, through drunken tears. In those moments, I held him close and gave myself to him for comfort, the pleasure we shared as man and wife, a balm to his wounded soul. It was in those nights that I realised that even men of war, despite all the courage, valour, and strength they possessed, were weak in the bosom of a woman.

These stories were not always of victory. As with every nation there were instances of defeat, which meant periods of mourning followed. Those stories were the hardest to tell but still he told them, sometimes after he washed the taste of battle from his mouth with wine, through drunken tears. In those moments, I held him close and gave myself to him for comfort, the pleasure we shared as man and wife, a balm to his wounded soul. It was in those nights that I realised that even men of war, despite all the courage, valour, and strength they possessed, were weak in the bosom of a woman.

There were also times of mending wounds. I remember so well the first time Uriah came back wounded from battle. Oh, how I cried for days. A sword had sliced through his chest, barely missing his heart. It took many herbs, many physicians, and many months to heal. At many points I was fearful he would not heal and that he would leave to be with Yahweh.

Dare I share this secret? I’m ashamed to say I prayed for him not to heal quickly; and twice, maybe even three times, I put aside the herbs for strength and, instead, gave him the ones for sleep. This kept him weaker for longer. I wanted him home. I wanted him safe. I did not want him to go to battle again. I prayed he would be declared unfit for war and become one of the King’s foot soldiers guarding the city gates. More than once I wished it was an arm the sword hit and not his chest. No one fought with a one-armed soldier, but I could be very happily married to a one- armed man. However, my prayers went unanswered. Please, don’t judge me. I loved my husband; perhaps you can understand that – my willingness to have him safe and alive. The love within me burned far stronger than the satisfaction I got from the stories or spoils of war.

To my initial disappointment, he got better, much quicker than I expected and was on his feet eager to be back to the field. I did confess my sin to him, one night many months later. He told me, his voice stern, how disappointed he was. It cut deep as he looked away and spat on the ground to emphasise his displeasure, banishing me to the inner sanctum while he decided my punishment.

I made no sound as I waited in my own inner room as jumbled thoughts raced through my mind. It was not uncommon for a man to take a firm whip to his wife. While I dreaded this, I felt I deserved it. And if he truly wanted to, he could cast me aside and marry another. I rubbed my eyes with shaking fingers, attempting to stop my mind from darting in too many directions. I smacked my lips, cursing myself for sharing too much.
Why did I do so? All it took was a few raisin cakes and one goblet of wine and my tongue was loose. Oh, why did I drink that wine? I don’t have a head for it. Yet the stories seem so much funnier after a goblet of wine, even the ones when an enemy’s head is chopped of, or when the weaker men beg for mercy. Although it was a mere few minutes that I sat in the room, banished like a naughty child, it felt like many hours had passed before I heard the door open and shut.

Uriah came to sit beside me quietly. “I have thought of a suitable punishment for you,” he said through clenched teeth.

I wiped the water dripping from my forehead, with my scarf, before covering my mouth with my hand trying not to scream from the fear that boiled within me.

He turned and looked at me as I avoided looking at him, my eyes searching his hands for a whip or anything else he could use to hurt me. My skin was tender, having been brushed over and over for more than a week by the Egyptian slave my husband bought for me. She had prepared me for his return after hearing rumours from the town gate that a foot soldier had arrived at the palace a few days before to inform them to prepare for the King’s return. Because of the brushing, anything Uriah did would bruise and hurt me. Please Yahweh, don’t let him hurt me. My prayer flew heavenwards.

He must have sensed my anxiety as he cleared his throat to get my attention. “Your punishment is thus.” His voice thundered.
“No more wine, no more stories. You will stay up all night and please me; perhaps I can fill you with a child to keep you busy, so you don’t miss me too much to want to kill me!”

Only then did I dare look into his eyes: the teasing smile that hung at the corner of his lips beckoned to me to draw closer. I let out a long sigh, and with a laughter louder than a respectable woman should exhibit, I eagerly slipped into his warm embrace. My Uriah! My love! How could I have ever imagined he would hurt me?

No sooner did the thoughts form in my mind than the words sprang from his lips: “I hope you had no fear that I would harm you!”

When I could form no words to respond, he could see the answer in my heart. He pulled me closer and whispered: “The only battles I fight are with the Lord’s enemies; never in my own home. I swear by the God you serve, who gave me the strength I live by, that these arms will be to you only a shield and never a sword.”

Then the night air was filled with the melody of love played by the bodies of two people playing a tune written in their hearts. Through his eyes, I had seen so much of life; through his words and actions I had heard and felt so much more.

Becoming Queen Bathsheba

AMANDA BEDZRAH
EVELYN HOUSE PUBLISHING

Copyright © AMANDA BEDZRAH 2022

Evelyn House Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-8383044-5-4

Editor: Wendy H. Jones

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission, in writing, from the author and publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction, based on the Bible story in the book of 2 Samuel, and should be read as such. There is no intention from the author to suggest this story is historical fact. Readers are encouraged to read the Bible.

Acknowledgments

A book like this cannot be written except by the grace of the Almighty God. Without Him, this book would only be a dream
in my heart. I am thankful and truly humbled that God entrusted me with this story and gave me the courage to be firm in my convictions, to listen to His promptings as He whispered thoughts and ideas for this book.

I want to say thank you to my husband, Francois, and our three children. Your love and understanding enabled me to hide away many days and nights to write, your support and encouragement was the fuel I needed to keep going. I love you all so much.

I also want to say a huge thank you to my sisters, Efe and Eruke. Your consistent love and support are unrivalled. You girls make life so much easier, and you have been with me each step of the way, praying for this book, and listening to all my worries and concerns. Thank you so much.

To my dear girlfriends, you are my biggest cheerleaders. You know that I am so thankful for you all.

To my spiritual mums and mentors – Carol Bostock and Rev. Victoria Lawrence, your prayers and words of encouragement have carried me through this journey. I am forever thankful.

To every woman who has been deeply wounded, know that we serve a God of justice and restoration. He will give you beauty instead of ashes.

prologue

c.990 BCE Jerusalem
United Kingdom of Israel

As the sun fades in the sky, I sit rocking gently, gazing out of the vast window of the King’s inner chamber and watching hints of orange flicker over golden brown clouds. My son suckles at my breast on this night before his first year on earth. The banquet room is already laid out: one hundred seats at the table, with the finest silver and gold plates, cups and cutlery at each place. The guests will arrive early next day, travelling from near and far, some for days, honouring the King’s invitation.

One hundred lambs were slaughtered earlier this day; the night is still thick with the fire from the smoke used to roast them in preparation for the morning. A seamstress arrived from Egypt more than a month ago, to sew the woven fabric for every royal in the house.

Though the sun is setting, the King is still on the throne, attending to matters of the nation of Israel. I am alone in his private quarters in the West wing of the palace. I look around me; the room is huge and quiet. How did I get here? I have asked myself this question at least a million times. Each time I try to think about it I am faced with painful memories. I paid a huge price for the crown that rests on my head. The more I think, the more I come to realize the cost, the pain, the sacrifice — the truth. Buried within my soul are words I have dared not speak or imagine; and yet, are dying to break free. Perhaps, someone somewhere may find comfort in my truth, in my journey, in my pain to becoming the woman I am today. It is for this reason I allow my mind to run freely today, closing my eyes and thinking back to three years previously, to the day it all began. I must remember, and I must write it down.

I place my son in the large woven basket filled with the softest wool blankets and equally soft cushions: I walk over to the large desk where paper and ink wait for me. I pick up the pen. I dip it in the ink. I apply it to the parchment… It is time to tell my story.

chapter one

It has been many weeks since I last saw my husband Uriah, who was away in battle, fighting to protect the nation of Israel. Sadly, this was not the first time he had been gone for more days than I could count — a situation to which I never became accustomed. Many years ago, when we were first married, we had one glorious, uninterrupted year together. According to our custom, no man was sent to war or put to work during this time; a custom which allowed us to enjoy our time as man and wife: our love grew deep.

As a trusted warrior for King David, Uriah has been in more battles than most other soldiers. One of the King’s Thirty, chosen under oath and appointed by the King himself. This was one of the things I loved most about him. How ironic that the best part of him seemed to be the worst part — both a blessing and a curse! Uriah worked harder than all the others to be chosen as one of the Thirty. He had to! As a foreigner from the far region of the Hittites, he first had to prove himself loyal to our God, then to the Crown, and, lastly, to the people of Israel. It did not matter that he could swing the sword with ease and precision; it mattered more who it was pointed at, and it took him many years to establish the trust required to be accepted into the army of God, Yahweh as I fondly call Him.

I loved the way he loved his job. The pride in his face when he told me stories about the battles he fought, the places he visited, and the victories they enjoyed was always the highlight of his return. I enjoyed every minute of it, hanging on his every word. These stories, good or bad, all fascinated me.

My grandfather Ahithopel, who I called Saba, was one of the King’s chief advisors; my father, Eliam, was also one of the Thirty. So, I grew up hearing war stories and tales from lands far away. My mother, unlike me, did not like the war stories. I was different to most women all of whom detested the sight of blood or description of battle. I loved to hear every minute detail and Uriah spared nothing. He told stories in such a way that I felt I was riding a horse on the battle ground, in the middle of a war fighting for my life, hearing the clashing of swords and the cries of battle, the iron smell of spilled blood filling my nostrils. Fear clutched at my chest almost stopping my heart beating.

These stories were not always of victory. As with every nation there were instances of defeat, which meant periods of mourning followed. Those stories were the hardest to tell but still he told them, sometimes after he washed the taste of battle from his mouth with wine, through drunken tears. In those moments, I held him close and gave myself to him for comfort, the pleasure we shared as man and wife, a balm to his wounded soul. It was in those nights that I realised that even men of war, despite all the courage, valour, and strength they possessed, were weak in the bosom of a woman.

These stories were not always of victory. As with every nation there were instances of defeat, which meant periods of mourning followed. Those stories were the hardest to tell but still he told them, sometimes after he washed the taste of battle from his mouth with wine, through drunken tears. In those moments, I held him close and gave myself to him for comfort, the pleasure we shared as man and wife, a balm to his wounded soul. It was in those nights that I realised that even men of war, despite all the courage, valour, and strength they possessed, were weak in the bosom of a woman.

There were also times of mending wounds. I remember so well the first time Uriah came back wounded from battle. Oh, how I cried for days. A sword had sliced through his chest, barely missing his heart. It took many herbs, many physicians, and many months to heal. At many points I was fearful he would not heal and that he would leave to be with Yahweh.

Dare I share this secret? I’m ashamed to say I prayed for him not to heal quickly; and twice, maybe even three times, I put aside the herbs for strength and, instead, gave him the ones for sleep. This kept him weaker for longer. I wanted him home. I wanted him safe. I did not want him to go to battle again. I prayed he would be declared unfit for war and become one of the King’s foot soldiers guarding the city gates. More than once I wished it was an arm the sword hit and not his chest. No one fought with a one-armed soldier, but I could be very happily married to a one- armed man. However, my prayers went unanswered. Please, don’t judge me. I loved my husband; perhaps you can understand that – my willingness to have him safe and alive. The love within me burned far stronger than the satisfaction I got from the stories or spoils of war.

To my initial disappointment, he got better, much quicker than I expected and was on his feet eager to be back to the field. I did confess my sin to him, one night many months later. He told me, his voice stern, how disappointed he was. It cut deep as he looked away and spat on the ground to emphasise his displeasure, banishing me to the inner sanctum while he decided my punishment.

I made no sound as I waited in my own inner room as jumbledthoughts raced through my mind. It was not uncommon for a man to take a rm whip to his wife. While I dreaded this, I felt Ideserved it. And if he truly wanted to, he could cast me asideand marry another. I rubbed my eyes with shaking ngers,attempting to stop my mind from darting in too many directions. I smacked my lips, cursing myself for sharing too much.Why did I do so? All it took was a few raisin cakes and onegoblet of wine and my tongue was loose. Oh, why did I drinkthat wine? I don’t have a head for it. Yet the stories seem somuch funnier after a goblet of wine, even the ones when anenemy’s head is chopped of, or when the weaker men beg formercy. Although it was a mere few minutes that I sat in theroom, banished like a naughty child, it felt like many hours hadpassed before I heard the door open and shut.

Uriah came to sit beside me quietly. “I have thought of a suitable punishment for you,” he said through clenched teeth.

I wiped the water dripping from my forehead, with my scarf,before covering my mouth with my hand trying not to screamfrom the fear that boiled within me.

He turned and looked at me as I avoided looking at him, myeyes searching his hands for a whip or anything else he coulduse to hurt me. My skin was tender, having been brushed overand over for more than a week by the Egyptian slave myhusband bought for me. She had prepared me for his returnafter hearing rumours from the town gate that a foot soldierhad arrived at the palace a few days before to inform them toprepare for the King’s return. Because of the brushing,anything Uriah did would bruise and hurt me. Please Yahweh,don’t let him hurt me. My prayer ew heavenwards.

He must have sensed my anxiety as he cleared his throat to getmy attention. “Your punishment is thus.” His voice thundered.”No more wine, no more stories. You will stay up all night and please me; perhaps I can ll you with a child to keep you busy,so you don’t miss me too much to want to kill me!”

Only then did I dare look into his eyes: the teasing smile thathung at the corner of his lips beckoned to me to draw closer. Ilet out a long sigh, and with a laughter louder than arespectable woman should exhibit, I eagerly slipped into hiswarm embrace. My Uriah! My love! How could I have everimagined he would hurt me?

No sooner did the thoughts form in my mind than the wordssprang from his lips: “I hope you had no fear that I would harmyou!”

When I could form no words to respond, he could see theanswer in my heart. He pulled me closer and whispered: “Theonly battles I ght are with the Lord’s enemies; never in myown home. I swear by the God you serve, who gave me thestrength I live by, that these arms will be to you only a shieldand never a sword.”

Then the night air was lled with the melody of love played bythe bodies of two people playing a tune written in their hearts.Through his eyes, I had seen so much of life; through his wordsand actions I had heard and felt so much more.