Luther and Katharina (19 page)

Her thread of confidence grew thinner as harvest came and with it the celebration of Michaelmas. The thread unraveled to the breaking point when the Feast of All Saints came and went, and finally Christmas and Epiphany passed without a word from Jerome. Through the long, dark hours of winter, she told herself that he would come in the spring, that he was waiting for the warmer weather to make travel easier for a man and his bride.

As more accounts of persecution began to trickle into Wittenberg, she convinced herself Jerome wouldn't travel, nor would he want her to, when danger lurked at every turn. He would wait until the storm of turmoil had abated and then come for her.

The terrible tales made her cower under the blankets on her pallet at night. In the dark, bitter cold of the third-story room she shared with Margaret, she couldn't stop thinking of the new dangers that awaited those who followed the teachings of Doctor Luther and his friends. She had no doubt the persecutors would consider her one of Doctor Luther's followers. The day she left Marienthron she had joined his side, whether or not she agreed with everything he taught.

Invariably, in the deep of night her thoughts would stray to Doctor Luther and the strain that had grown more evident in his face over the past months. She could only imagine the pain each new report of torture or death brought him.

One night in the midst of a deep sleep, Katharina's eyes flew open. The sound of a strange noise lingered in her head. She lay motionless and listened.

Silence mingled with Margaret's soft breathing on the pallet across from hers.

Perhaps she'd heard the noise only in her dream…the horrible dream about the reformed preachers in Württemberg who'd recently had their tongues nailed to a post. She couldn't stop thinking about the pain they'd experienced trying to liberate themselves. And now because of their mutilated tongues, their persecutors had ensured the preachers would never speak again.

She shuddered and pulled her blanket up to her chin.

The brutality unleashed by the pope and his clergy was spreading everywhere, and she trembled to think it might find its way to Wittenberg. They'd begun to hear reports of retaliation—by peasants and even those of the burgher class, claiming to act in the name of Doctor Luther and for the benefit of the reforms. Groups of Bundschuh had begun attacking monasteries, pillaging, destroying relics, raping nuns, and hanging clergy who refused to join their cause.

The creak of a board sounded in the room, and this time she knew she hadn't dreamed it. She silenced her tumbling thoughts and strained to listen.

After a long moment came another sound—the friction of cloth against planks, almost as if someone were crawling across the floor.

Her blood turned to ice, and she strained to see through the night. What if Abbot Baltazar had sent his men after them again? His threat to get them back continually stalked her.

A hand slipped over her mouth. It was cold and thin and pressed hard, muffling her startled gasp. She arched her back and twisted to break free. Panic raced through her and filled her with only one thought: she had to save herself and Margaret from capture by Abbot Baltazar's men. Once had been enough. She couldn't fail Margaret again.

She thrashed her legs and tried to pry the hand from her mouth and wished Margaret wasn't such a heavy sleeper.

“Don't struggle,” came a hoarse whisper next to her ear. It was followed by the prick of a blade against her neck.

The pain deepened and forced her to lie completely still, so she couldn't attempt to identify her attacker. A ragged sleeve brushed her face. The stench of fish and excrement ingrained in the fabric assaulted her nostrils.

Ave Maria.
Her mind whirled in a crazy spiral of fear. Tortured priests without tongues lined up before her.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit…
She leaned back on her pallet and ordered her body into a calmness that betrayed her thundering heart.

“Sister Katharina,” the attacker whispered. A hooded face appeared over hers. “I have news for you.”

She squinted and tried to see past the shadows.

“If you pay the right price, I'll give you the news.”

This surely couldn't be one of Abbot Baltazar's men. Who was this, and what did he want?

“You can't alert anyone else that I'm here.”

Katharina nodded.

The attacker removed his hand from her mouth but didn't move the blade. “It's me, Greta.”

“Greta?” Relief poured through Katharina, relief so swift that tears pooled in her eyes. She tried to sit up, but the blade bit her flesh, and she fell back. “Greta, where have you been? How are you faring?”

Margaret stirred. “Katharina? What is it?” Her voice was groggy with sleep.

“Greta's back.” Katharina wished she could wrap her arms around her prodigal maidservant and was confused that the girl was threatening her with a knife.

“Greta?” Margaret sat up, all traces of grogginess gone from her voice. “After all this time? Oh, how wonderful.”

Katharina could hear Margaret fumbling to open the shutters. Within seconds the room was illuminated by the faint moonlight of the clear winter sky.

“Oh, Greta, we thought you were dead.” Margaret turned and smiled at Greta, who was still kneeling next to Katharina. However, when Margaret glimpsed the knife against Katharina's throat, she gasped and hopped backward.

Greta tossed the hood away from her face, and Katharina couldn't contain a murmur of surprise. Her relief at her reunion with her servant was chased away by horror. Greta's face was that of an old woman: sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, brittle skin, only a skeleton of the beautiful young girl she'd once been. She could see gaping black where Greta was missing her top front teeth.

Katharina pushed aside the knife and sat up. Sobs gathered like storm clouds in her chest and pushed for release. Before Greta could protest, Katharina grabbed her into an embrace. The girl didn't fight her but held herself stiff. At the thought of all Greta had gone through these past months, Katharina had to stifle an escaped sob into Greta's foul-smelling cloak.

After several moments of Katharina's embrace, Greta pulled back.

“How's your baby?” Margaret asked.

“Dead.” Greta's voice was emotionless.

“Oh, Greta.” Katharina had to swallow hard to keep the rest of her sobs at bay. She'd tried to ignore the troubling possibility that she was partly to blame for the girl running away. But the guilt swirled with the agony of seeing the young woman so deformed and decimated.

“I have news about Marienthron,” Greta whispered hoarsely. “Do you want it or not?”

“What kind of news?” Katharina asked.

“The worst kind.”

Katharina's pulse slowed, and she swallowed past the tightness of her throat. “What is it?” What if Abbot Baltazar had done something more to Aunt Lena? Her heart couldn't bear the thought of the dear woman suffering further. Many times during the past months, Katharina had wished she'd tried harder to make her aunt leave the convent so she'd be safe. But then at other times, she was glad Aunt Lena was somewhere useful. If she, Katharina, couldn't find a home of her own, what would have become of Aunt Lena out in the world?

“You have to promise to pay a price first.”

“But I have no money and nothing of value.” Nothing except the indulgence her mother had given her, but she'd never part with that, not for any reason.

“I don't want money. I want Thomas freed.”

“Thomas?” Margaret said, wrapping her thin arms across her shivering torso. “Isn't he dead?”

“He's still in the elector's prison in Torgau.” Greta waved the knife. “If you guarantee his release, then I'll give you the news.”

“Greta, I cannot release him.” Despair rolled through Katharina. “I don't have that kind of power.”

“But you know Doctor Luther. He could get Thomas out.” Greta's lifeless eyes lit for a moment with a silent, desperate plea.

“Even if I ask Doctor Luther to petition for Thomas's release, I couldn't guarantee it.”

Greta was silent, her gaunt face streaked with grime and bruises. The girl's thin shoulders formed sharp peaks through the ragged linen of her cloak.

Every pitiful part of the girl's condition ripped at Katharina's heart. “Greta, you must stay and let me help you.”

She shook her head and started to rise. Katharina reached for her. But the hardness in the girl's eyes stopped Katharina. It was clear that Greta wanted only one thing from her, and Katharina knew she had to at least try to win Thomas's release. It was the only thing she could do for Greta now. “I shall ask Doctor Luther, Greta—regardless of whether you give me the news about Marienthron. Thomas doesn't deserve to be locked away.”

Greta was silent for a long moment. Finally she spoke in a harsh whisper. “The Bundschuh are planning to attack Marienthron. They'll have no mercy.”

L
uther pulled the hood of his heavy woolen cloak down again and tried to shield his face from the biting wind. It did little good. His eyebrows were already caked with ice. His hand upon the reins was numb, frozen into position. Worse were his toes. The only part of him still warm was his back, where Katharina had burrowed against him.

He should have forced her to stay in Torgau when they'd stopped to thaw themselves. It was too cold and too dangerous for her to be with them. Who knew what they would find when they reached the abbey?

Fresh anger rumbled through him. Why did he have such a difficult time saying no to her royal majesty? Actually, he
had
told her no; he'd ordered her to stay behind. But she'd been as insistent and as stubborn as a headache.

“You should be married to Baumgartner by now,” he growled over his shoulder. “Then I wouldn't have to be responsible for what might happen to you.”

“And you should be married to Hanna von Spiegel.” Her voice was muffled under a layer of scarves.

He snorted. “Hanna von Spiegel is betrothed to the swineherd at the Wiederstedt convent. She was betrothed before she ran away.”

He felt Katharina's sharp intake of breath more than he heard it. His frozen lips cocked into a half grin. “I know exactly what you're thinking, empress Kate. That it's unthinkable, unacceptable, entirely unpardonable for a woman of noble birth to love a commoner and want to marry him.”

“It's unheard of.”

“Her relatives agree with you. They won't heed a word I've written to them. They've hired lawyers to prevent her from marrying out of her social class.”

He couldn't hear Katharina's response, but he knew it. She was as proud as the rest. “One man is equal to another if only they want and love each other.”

She didn't respond.

He knew she'd heard him. “One man is equal to another”—he raised his voice anyway—“if only they want and love each other.”

She lifted her head. “An uncommon match only breeds discontent and gives birth to unhappiness.”

He shook his head. “Let's hope your
common
match with Baumgartner doesn't do the same.”

She stiffened and held herself rigid so she was no longer leaning into him.

He kicked his horse, urging it faster. The motion forced her to snake her arms around his middle to keep from toppling. Her body flattened against his again, sending a shiver through him. Even though layers of cloaks and robes separated them, he couldn't keep from relishing the pressure of her, the closeness.

Was that why he had allowed her to come along? Was he growing weak? When it came to women, he'd always been able to look away, deny his flesh, and fill his mind with other thoughts. Why then did he have trouble with his self-control when he was with Katharina?

He put his head down. It would be better to pretend she wasn't there.

They rode in silence as they had most of the day. The others in their party were equally somber. He hoped they could arrive in time to warn Marienthron and prevent the attack that Katharina had learned about. But he feared that they would be too late, that their mission would fail.

Lately there had been many such attacks against convents where rebelling peasants looted and killed in retaliation for all they'd suffered. Even if the tyranny of Rome and her followers was unbearable, he couldn't justify the common man taking the law into his own hands. He firmly believed that it was the exclusive domain of the princes, knights, and other secular rulers to hold authority, that it was ordained by God they should keep the peace, protect the innocent, and punish evil.

No matter how justified the Bundschuh peasants were in their complaints, he couldn't condone their violent means. Brute force was the weapon of mindless animals—whether peasant or prince.

Winter's early nightfall was upon them by the time they reached Grimma. From there it was only a short ride to the Marienthron convent. When they arrived, they saw one of the front gates hanging at an odd angle, and eerie stillness greeted them.

Luther slowed his horse. His dread increased with each step they took.

They entered the compound, and the clopping of their horses' hoofs echoed like that of an army in the silence of the empty abbey. The destruction that met them was evidence the battle was already over. Before he'd even brought his horse to a standstill, Katharina slid down. Without a moment of hesitation, she sprang forward toward the main cloister building.

“Aunt Lena!” Katharina shouted.

The desperation in her voice tore at his heart, the same way it had when she'd shown up at the Black Cloister at dawn to awaken him to the plight of Marienthron.

He slipped from his horse, determined to follow her, afraid of what she might find.

Melanchthon's hand on his arm stopped him. “They've destroyed the relic boxes.” His friend held up a handful of bones.

Through the fading light Luther could see the battered chests, their contents strewn, jars broken, shrouds ripped, bones crushed. Marienthron had been home to perhaps four hundred relics: particles of Christ's table, cross, crib, robe, blood, the stone and soil where he had wept, along with a various assortment of bones from apostles and saints.

“There are enough pieces of the true cross here to build a house.” He fingered a rough plank in disgust. It was all rubbish as far as he was concerned; none of it had enough power to save a gnat. Such relics might be useless and worthy of destruction, but he could support neither the iconoclasm nor the use of unrestrained strength in rebellion. There were more peaceful methods of fighting a battle, and he'd become the master of their use.

“Doctor Luther, over there.” One of the men who had joined them in Torgau pointed to a cage swinging from a tall elm in the middle of the cloister yard. Despite the growing darkness, the sight was gruesome. Inside sat the mutilated body of a priest, hands and feet cut off, his corpse left to rot. A single peasant shoe hung from the cage by its long leather strip.

Luther could only shake his head in frustration. Why wouldn't the Bundschuh listen to his admonitions? He knew the church had mistreated them, had caused them untold pain over the years. But such vindication wouldn't solve the problems.

He picked his way around the debris and entered the cloister building. The inside was as ransacked as the outside. He stopped to peer into each room that he passed. The peasants had overturned and smashed tables and benches in the refectory, broken the expensive glass windows in the common rooms, and shredded the sheets and sliced the pallets in the dormitory.

Anger swirled through his gut. The peasants might believe they were on a holy mission, but they were doing the work of the devil. He could explain it no other way.

“Kate?” His voice echoed in the unlit, narrow hallway.

“Here.”

He followed her voice into one of the small cells.

She was kneeling before an older nun and wrapping a strip of sheet around the woman's head. In the deep shadows of the room, he could distinguish a spot of bright blood already seeping through the linen. Katharina's face was pale, but she worked deftly to tear another strip of linen with her teeth. Her hands shook as she fumbled to wrap the piece of cloth around the woman's head.

Luther knelt next to her, the blood-slickened floor dampening his hose. “Is she your Aunt Lena?”

Katharina nodded without pausing in her work. “She's alive, but barely.”

The woman's face was ashen except for the purple welt that had swollen closed one eye. The other eye gazed into an unseen oblivion. Her habit was ripped past her knees giving him a glimpse of dark blood smeared up her legs onto her thighs.

Nausea gurgled in his stomach and rose into his throat. The peasant men were doing nothing more than satisfying their own lusts in the name of revolution. What did raping nuns have to do with gaining the freedoms they desired?

He swallowed several times and then took a deep breath. “Where are the others?”

“Sisters Maltiz and Pock are in the next cell.” Her voice cracked. “They're dead.”

“And the rest of them?”

“I don't know.” She finally turned to look at him. The horror in her eyes made him want to pull her into his arms and hold her and shield her from the nightmare.

“How could anyone do this?” she whispered.

He could only shake his head and thank God from the depths of his heart that Katharina hadn't been there when the peasants had attacked.