Luther and Katharina (22 page)

His cold fingers grazed the smoothness of her back with an intimacy that made her shudder. “Sister Katharina,” he said in a low voice, “you'll learn to accept me. And someday in heaven you'll thank me for saving your soul.”

“I shall not be able to thank you in heaven, for you won't be there.” Her response slipped out before she thought of the ramifications.

She heard a startled gasp from the abbess, but the whistle of the rod slicing through the air and the connection with her bare flesh took away all thought. The fire of the strike across her skin reached inside and tore a scream from her chest.

“Your defiance is from the devil.” Abbot Baltazar brought the rod down upon her skin again, then again, and again. Her agonized cries spilled out as he beat her over and over. Fire raced up and down her back until she thought her body would burn up altogether and she would find herself a heap of ashes. Finally he stopped. His heavy breathing filled the air where her screams still echoed.

Her throat was hoarse, and she was sure she was in hell with a demon on her back torturing her flesh with a flaming torch.

“Your turn, Abbess Margareta. You and the prioress will alternate disciplining now.”

“But, Abbot Baltazar, hasn't she—”

“Abbess Margareta, I would not like to report any further obstinacy to the bishop.”

There was a brief moment of silence before the abbess responded in a resigned tone. “How many more lashes?”

“You may not stop until Sister Katharina says, ‘
Mea culpa,
I will amend.' ”

Katharina closed her eyes, dizzy, weak, and wishing she could fall into oblivion so she could be freed from the torment where her back had once been.

“Sister Katharina.” The abbess spoke firmly behind her. “You must repent of your waywardness at once. Then we shall be finished with your discipline.”

Katharina couldn't remember a kind word the Reverend Mother had ever spoken to her. In fact, Katharina had decided she reminded the abbess too much of the family she'd been denied. Perhaps the abbess had resented her sister for her freedom and normal life the same way Katharina had resented her sister.

“Quick repentance is always best,” the abbess said.

“Forgive me, Reverend Mother,” Katharina managed to croak. “My conscience will not permit me.”

“Resume the lashes,” Abbot Baltazar called.

The rod connected with her inflamed flesh, and she screamed. Although the abbess didn't have the same strength as Abbot Baltazar, the pain radiated as though ten more demons had descended upon her.

The rod fell again and again until she couldn't breathe enough to scream. In her agony she could think of nothing but death.

“Say the words, Sister Katharina.” The abbess's plea penetrated the haze in her head.

Did she have the strength to utter the words they wanted to hear? Would they beat her to death if she refused?

“Repent.” The abbess's tone was urgent and angry. “It's not so difficult to claim responsibility for your sins.”

Would she be able to live with herself if she uttered the words? Or would she save her outer body only to kill her inner spirit and end up a shell of a woman like Aunt Lena?

“If you cannot repent for leaving”—her aunt's voice dipped to a harsh whisper meant only for her ear—“then repent for anything. But just do it or he'll kill you.”

Katharina wasn't ready to die, not when she'd just begun to live. She still had too many hopes and dreams that she wasn't ready to let go of.

But could she find anything for which to repent?

The metallic taste of blood trickled from her cracked lips where the bark had chafed her. What about her pride? Surely her pride and callousness had hurt Greta. She'd taken her maidservant too much for granted. She'd presumed to think she was superior to the girl in every way simply because of their respective birthrights. If she'd truly loved Greta, not just as a master for a servant but as a friend, perhaps Greta would have confided in her. Perhaps she never would have run away.

“Mea culpa,” she said. “I will amend.” The hoarse voice that spoke didn't resemble hers.

“She has said it.” The abbess expelled a tremulous breath and dropped something into the grass. It was the rod, slick and bright red.

W
hen Katharina awoke, she desperately wished to return to the unconscious world, where she could escape the horror and pain of what had befallen her. Although her beating had finally ended, someone had moved her into the misericord, which meant one thing—her discipline would continue.

At least they hadn't returned her to the cloister prison. She didn't have to view her back to know her wounds were too serious to leave untreated. The unending pain and warmth of oozing blood told enough.

They had laid her on a pallet and exposed her tortured back to the ministrations of the infirmarian. No one spoke to her as they entered and left the room, not even in the sign language they used for communication. The sisters took turns acting as deputy and watched over her day and night, guarding the door to her room.

Over the following days Katharina had too much time to think and sleep. Since idleness had never agreed with her, in her mind she wrote and rewrote a letter to Doctor Luther. She'd smuggle it out of the convent the first opportunity she had. In the letter she'd beg his forgiveness for anything she'd done to anger him, and she'd plead with him to come to her rescue—again.

Prayer was her one comfort. Her efforts to pray without recited words grew steadily easier and more natural. The calm she'd felt in prison returned to her. She'd reached the worst point in her life, where everything that could go wrong had, and praying kept her from sinking into the pit of despair.

When her back had finally healed enough for her to begin sitting up, the sisters dressed her in the customary habit, tied a belt loosely around her, then draped the long, wide scapular over her shoulders. As they wrapped a wimple around her head, she wondered how long it would be before they cut her hair. Over the past year it had grown until now it reached well past her shoulders. Sooner or later they would shear it short. She could bear the nun's habit; she could even endure the monotony of silence. But she would greatly miss her long hair.

One morning after Prime, the abbess came to her. With bowed head Katharina knelt and kissed her outstretched hand. The abbess stood silently for a long moment until Katharina wondered if her aunt might actually speak to her. But when she finally did, she only gave whispered instructions for penance. She made Katharina prostrate herself on the cold floor with arms outstretched and then required her to recite the Divine Office, two Pater Nosters, three Hail Marys, four creeds, five confessions, the Ten Commandments, and finally the Act of Faith.

After she finished, the abbess gave her a sheet of paper, ink, and quill. At first Katharina hoped she might be able to write a letter to Doctor Luther and somehow sneak it out of the abbey, but the Reverend Mother stood over her as she wrote her confessions, watching each stroke she made.

Every day the abbess came to oversee her penance and read her confessions. Katharina guessed the woman was waiting for her to admit she'd sinned by running away from the convent, but she determined never to write it. She would readily confess her sins of pride, anger, and covetousness, but she'd never admit she'd been wrong to leave the abbey.

Katharina knew she would eventually have to face Abbot Baltazar again. She dreaded the prospect, but she was unprepared for the fear that filled her when the door of her cell opened one evening, and instead of the abbess, he stepped inside.

The memory of the beating drenched her like icy water and made her back ache again.

“Sister Katharina.” He rubbed one hand across his protruding middle and held out the other fleshy hand with his long fingernails for her to kiss. His bulging, bloodshot eyes regarded her with the same look he'd given Greta that day he'd arrived in Wittenberg.

It sent revulsion into her stomach. Nevertheless, with downcast eyes she knelt, took his hand, and gave him the respectful greeting required of her.

“I gave Abbess Margareta one week to attempt to restore you. She's asked for more time, but it's doubtful that you'd repent even if she had a full year.” He motioned for Katharina to prostrate herself.

Trembling, she lowered herself until she was flat on the floor, nose touching the plank and arms outstretched.

“The time is past due for you to repent, Sister Katharina.”

What would he do to her this time? Beat her again? She didn't know how her back could survive any more. The fresh scabs would easily break and bleed at the first strike of the rod.

“You must see the error of your ways.” He stepped over her. “I'm convinced that painful punishment can turn many a wayward sinner back to the truth.”

Holy Lord, have mercy.
She swallowed and tried to push down the lump of fear wedged in her throat.

He circled near her feet. “Such small feet. I'm sure the skin is quite tender.”

She suddenly pictured Thomas's crisp, blackened feet, blood oozing from bright pink cracks. Terror circled her neck like a noose and choked her breath. Was Abbot Baltazar planning to roast her feet as he had Thomas's?

“Yes, you won't resist the truth for long.” He hooked his foot in the hem of her habit and began slipping it up.

Her mind shrieked, and her heart refused to beat.

“You must learn to submit to my authority.” He slid her habit higher, exposing her stockings tied by garters and the bare legs above them. “A submissive spirit is what God Almighty requires of His children, and He has appointed me to train you in this endeavor.”

A new fear seized her. What if he planned to abuse her in another, more sinister way? All the years of overlooking, of denying the sordid rumors regarding the priests came back to laugh at her, and the reality of what the abbot was capable of doing mocked her.

Chills ran up her bare legs. Whatever discipline he was intending, she wouldn't let him. She'd fight. “No.” She pushed up and tried to scramble forward.

His rod slapped against the wounds on her back. The pain radiated with such intensity that a scream slipped from her lips and filled the small cell. She fell back to the ground, immobilized and nearly blind from the torment to her skin.

He jumped on her, and his heavy weight pinned her legs under his knees. “You'll fare much better, Sister Katharina, if you learn submission quickly.”

“No!” She struggled against him, twisting and turning to free herself.

Again the rod slashed her back.

She screamed again. The shrillness echoed off the walls.

“Abbot Baltazar?” The door to the misericord opened wide.

In a haze Katharina saw the abbess with the wooden stocks in one arm and a large candle in the other. The woman refused to meet her gaze.

Hot hatred pulsed through her—a hatred for her family so intense that she suddenly wanted to weep with the pressure of it. She hated them for abandoning her, for not loving her, for doing nothing to help her at her moment of greatest need. And now her aunt, her own flesh and blood, was planning to aid in her torture.

“Abbess Margareta.” Abbot Baltazar stood hurriedly, smoothing his habit. His voice was tight with anger. “I thought I told you to wait outside the door and that I would call you when I was ready.”

“You did call, didn't you?”

“No,” he growled, “I did not.”

“I beg your forgiveness. I thought I heard you call for me. Please forgive me.”

“Very well. Now take your leave. And next time don't enter until I bid you.”

The abbess hesitated and glanced down the hallway outside the misericord. “Are you sure you're not ready to begin?”

Katharina lifted her head and tried pushing herself off the floor. Dizziness from the pain in her back weighed her down, but she realized this was her chance. If she wanted to escape Abbot Baltazar, she must get away now.

“I'm ensuring Sister Katharina's submission.” Irritation dripped from Abbot Baltazar's voice. “Now take your leave and close the door. You've interfered enough this week in Sister Katharina's discipline.”

The abbess didn't reply but instead stepped into the hallway and peered out expectantly.

Katharina struggled to her knees. Warm rivulets trickled down her back.

“I don't think you'd like me to report any insubordination to the bishop, would you, Abbess Margareta?” Abbot Baltazar asked. “We both know what he'd do to you.”

Before the abbess could reply, a tall, dark-hooded figure filled the doorway.

Katharina scrambled to sit up and suffocated a whimper of pain with her sleeve.

“Who are you?” Abbot Baltazar turned a withering glare on the intruder.

The abbess rushed toward Katharina, jerked her to her feet, and began to tug her toward the door. Confused, Katharina couldn't make her legs work even though she knew she should. Instead she watched the stranger slip a long dagger from his belt.

Abbot Baltazar quickly took a step back. “I demand to know who you are and what you're doing here.”

The abbess wrenched Katharina's habit and motioned for Katharina to come with her. But Katharina couldn't turn her attention away from the blade. The hand gripping the hilt was missing several fingers. The stubs were ragged and uneven and deeply scarred.

“I vowed I would kill you,” a rasping voice said. “And I always keep my vows.”

Abbot Baltazar's eyes narrowed. “Abbess Margareta, call the gatekeepers to arrest this man.”

The abbess grabbed Katharina's arm and ignored the abbot.

The stranger threw back his hood and revealed a disfigured face with an empty eye socket. “Remember me?”

Abbot Baltazar's face blanched.

Katharina stared. Was it Thomas, Greta's Thomas, the one the abbot had so hideously tortured?

“Sister Katharina, come with me,” the abbess whispered, her face grave with urgency.

Abbot Baltazar stepped back farther, his eyes reflecting fear. “How did you get out of prison?”

“Martin Luther.” Thomas thrust out the knife. “At least there's one monk in this world who's decent, who doesn't take out his lusts on helpless servant girls.”

“Katharina, you must come with me now.” The abbess's whisper was harsh, and there was something in her aunt's eyes that Katharina had never seen before—concern. The concern loosened Katharina's body. She lurched forward against the abbess, letting her guide her away from the abbot.

“Abbess Margareta, I told you to get the gatekeepers.” Abbot Baltazar's voice had a ring of panic.

Thomas stepped to the center of the room.

The abbot shrank back, bumping into the writing desk and rattling the ink bottles and quills that lay abandoned. “How did you get in here without the gatekeepers seeing you?”

Thomas threw off his cloak and then nodded at the wooden stocks and candle sitting where the abbess had placed them. “Those are for you, Baltazar.”

Abbot Baltazar turned a stunned gaze upon the abbess.

“Quickly, Katharina.” Without a glance back the Reverend Mother dragged Katharina from the room into the long, silent hallway.

“By the time I'm finished with you,” Katharina heard Thomas say, “you'll beg me for mercy. But you won't get what you wouldn't give.”

“Abbess Margareta, you'll be punished for this.” The fear in the abbot's voice followed them. “Severely punished.”

The abbess glanced at another cloaked figure, smaller and more womanly, and nodded. The woman stepped forward, closed the door, and lowered the wooden bar that would trap Abbot Baltazar with Thomas.

Katharina tried to peer past the woman's hood, but the abbess's grip tightened, and she hurried Katharina down the hallway.

“Greta?” Katharina strained to look over her shoulder.

The woman's dirty face was illuminated by the fading evening light that came from the one window at the end of the hallway. “I'm sorry, Greta,” Katharina called. “I'm so sorry for not understanding, for not protecting you.”

Greta's blank gaze shifted away.

“Please forgive me, Greta. I was naive and wrong and—”