Luther and Katharina (29 page)

Luther wanted to believe his friend. Whenever he'd held Katharina, he'd wanted to think she was reacting with the same longings he had. But he wasn't sure if he'd only projected his own desires onto her.

He finally sighed. “I'll never be the kind of man she dreamed of having.”

“No man will ever measure up to her standard,” Jonas conceded. “Kate's a proud woman, and she'd keep you humble.”

“I've no doubt she would.” Did he dare follow Jonas's advice? When had his friend ever been wrong about something?

What would it be like to share one night, to have even one kiss with Katharina? At the merest thought of sharing intimacies with her, the heat in his stomach shot to the rest of his body. He couldn't deny he wanted to sate such longings. And not with just any woman. He finally had to admit it: he wanted Katharina von Bora.

And now she'd promised she would marry him. Surely she wouldn't have agreed to such a vow if she didn't see something desirable in him. Now was his chance to have her. She would have no excuse to deny him. He could ask her without worry of rejection.

Then he shook his head. “No.” The old arguments came crowding back, although with less power. The pope and princes still hunted him. God had called him to reform the church, and a wife would only distract him from his mission. At least that's what Melanchthon would tell him if he were there.

“God may change my heart if it be His pleasure.” He knew his voice was too loud, but he needed to convince not only Jonas but also himself. “But now at least, I have no thought of taking a wife.”

“You can try to fool yourself,” Jonas said, picking up the quill pen, “but you can't fool me. I know you love her and want her. I've known it all along.”

Luther ducked his head. Yes, he wanted her. But did he love her? If so, then how could he chance putting her in danger? For by marrying her, he would be signing her death warrant, just as he had his own.

He swallowed the swell of his desire even though it pained him to do so. “It's no good, my friend. I won't do it.”

“Say what you want.” Jonas sat forward and dropped his feet to the floor with a thud. “You're a man who feels things deeper than most, not only in your work and writings but in your personal life too. Such a man cannot resist taking a wife forever.”

L
uther closed his eyes but couldn't block the nightmare of the past days from his mind—the blackened walls, the rivers of blood, the piles of severed limbs. The suffocating odor of thick smoke and the sickening stench of charred flesh permeated his senses and the fibers of his garments. The destruction he'd witnessed throughout the countryside reminded him of the Marienthron convent after the attack by the Bundschuh. Only this time the violence and cruelty had spread everywhere.

Anger and hopelessness and frustration bubbled in the pit of his stomach like boiling water in a cauldron. He pressed against the cold walls of the Church of Saint George in his boyhood parish and longed to soak in the calm strength the ancient stones offered.

Outside the wide double doors, thunder rumbled in the low clouds of the morning. The few parishioners who'd attended the morning service had dispersed. Anxiety ruled as dictator over Mansfeld, as it did over most of the surrounding provinces.

Luther's gaze strayed inside to the great stained-glass window that graced the sanctuary. How ironic that its many colorful glass pieces portrayed a sword-holding, thunder-visaged Christ, so unlike the Christ he'd studied in the New Testament.

“The peasants' power has spread to Spires, the Palatinate, Alsace, and Hesse.” Vicar Johann Ledener spoke warily to the few men who remained. He directed his conversation mostly to Melanchthon, who had insisted on accompanying Luther on his tour of Thuringia.

Luther knew his friend had wanted to monitor his speeches and make sure he said nothing to offend the princes, had worried he would lend the peasants too much support in their cause. But Melanchthon and all his advisors had been anxious for nothing. He couldn't support the peasants anymore. Not after what he'd seen over the past days of travel.

The ranks of rebelling Bundschuh had swelled like newly thawed rivers overflowing their banks, leaving a wake of destruction in their path. Everywhere he'd gone he witnessed one atrocity after another. They'd destroyed and burned the palaces of the bishops, castles of the nobility, and abbeys of innocent men and women. They claimed that they were seeking liberation from their oppressors, that they were ridding the church of corruption and spreading the true gospel. But their gospel wasn't truth. It belonged to none other than the devil himself.

The rising violence was worse than anything he'd seen before. He could still see the priests swinging from the trees, their heads drooping, their bodies listless. He'd seen the remains of some who'd been roasted alive and others who'd been mutilated and decapitated. The senseless brutality had overwhelmed him. The memories still made his stomach churn.

“The cities have been unable to resist,” Vicar Ledener said. “To survive the roaming hordes of peasants, they've been forced to open their gates and join them.”

Luther sighed. He'd heard the same story in every town, the same fear in every voice. The peasants had taken their grievances too far.

Yet when he'd rebuked the peasants for their methods, they hadn't wanted to hear condemnation of their rebellion. They only wanted to hear that they were justified in their actions. They'd wanted his open declaration of support against the tyranny of the nobility.

Instead he'd told them, “ ‘Vengeance is Mine,' says the Lord.”

They'd shouted at him and asked why he was justified in declaring war against the pope and yet expected them to submit to their oppressors.

He'd reminded them that their battle was not flesh and blood, but spiritual. That prayer and submission are the Christian weapons.

But his words had incited them to anger. The threats had grown violent, the words murderous. So Melanchthon had cut short his tour. Now they would head back to Wittenberg, and he would have to face the growing pressure to side with the princes.

“Müntzer has inflamed the peasants of Mansfeld and all around the countryside,” said Ruhel, a representative of Count Albrecht, who had joined their discussion. “They're flocking to Mühlhausen, and their numbers grow stronger every day.”

“And what has the count done?” Melanchthon asked.

“He has issued a call to the knights, to the
Landsknechts
. They're assembling and preparing for battle, along with Duke George of Saxony and Duke John.”

“No.” Luther pushed away from the wall. Fresh dread pulsed through him as he stepped out of the cool shadows into the unadorned church. “There must be a peaceful resolution. No more bloodshed.”

“The peasants won't listen to negotiations,” Vicar Ledener said, shaking his head sadly and casting his sights to the dark corners and thick pillars of the nave as if peasants bearing knives would spring out at any moment.

“The vicar's right,” the count's representative responded. “The counts of Lowenstein were taken prisoner, dressed in smocks, and forced to carry white staffs. The peasants compelled them to swear to the Twelve Articles and told them they were peasants and no longer lords. The rebels don't want any man over them, and they don't want to submit to anyone.”

“Müntzer has unfurled a white banner,” the vicar added. “It has a rainbow in its center and the words ‘This is the Sign of the Eternal Covenant with God.' ”

“A rainbow?” Luther couldn't keep the derision from his voice. “Does he think he's Noah? Is he building an ark in Mühlhausen? If so, we'll have to send him a few choice animals, a couple of donkeys, perhaps?”

Melanchthon frowned at him.

“What?” Luther raised his brow. “That donkey has called me much worse. Spiteful raven. Godless rogue. Brother Fattened Pig. Dr. Easy Chair. Dr. Pussyfoot. Brother Soft Life.”

“We get your point, Martinus.” Melanchthon was the most moderate of his friends, the one who always sought peace—especially with the princes—using every possible means.

But Luther feared they were beyond peace, especially with Müntzer. “The man is nothing more than an evil spirit. He's always had a rebellious bent, even in the early days of the reforms.”

“Müntzer has pleaded with the mine workers to abandon their shafts and smelters to join him,” Ruhel said.

“Will they?” Luther thought of his father, brother, brothers-in-law, and the many other men he'd grown up with. Surely they wouldn't listen to a radical like Müntzer.

“The count has been negotiating with them.” As the spokesman for the count, Ruhel had something in common with Luther—he could rarely please anyone. “If the count releases the pressure for them to pay their debts, then they'll agree to ignore Müntzer's plea for help.”

“Müntzer should be put to the sword.” Anger swirled through Luther. He opposed violent means, but this was a time when drastic measures were needed.

Everyone nodded.

“As long as he's alive,” Luther continued, “he'll continue to stir the peasants toward rebellion.”

“He's not the worst,” Vicar Ledener said. “We've gotten reports that close to three hundred thousand peasants are armed in the Franconia area.”

Luther took a sharp breath. “Surely not.”

“No one knows the exact number, but it is indeed large.”

His stomach turned with a sickening twist. He'd seen the devastation left behind by the smaller bands of peasants. He shuddered to think of the carnage a much larger army could wreak.

“Time to write another letter.” Melanchthon caught Luther's gaze. The seriousness in his expression communicated the gravity of the situation. “We must stop the peasants from further rebellion.”

“If you give the princes and nobles your support,” Ruhel added, “they'll be able to put a stop to this bloodbath before it threatens us all.”

“If we don't put an end to the lawlessness,” Melanchthon said, “then Müntzer, Karlstadt, and others like them will undermine all the reforms we have begun.”

Luther stared out the doors to the dark clouds rumbling closer, the flashes of lightning streaking the sky. Three hundred thousand peasants prowling about the country, burning, looting, murdering?

Someone had to stop them. He obviously hadn't been able to. Were the princes the only ones who could?

Did they have any choice now but to use force?

Luther lifted his niece into the air, blew bubbles on her stomach, and earned a round of giggles in reward. He laughed and set her back on the floor next to her sister, who then lifted her arms. “My turn, Uncle Martin! My turn.”

At the trestle table his brother, Jacob, watched unsmiling from where he sat on the bench next to their father, who was conversing with Melanchthon about the peasant uprisings and the count's response. Their mother was removing the remains of their meal of cold partridge, bread, and figs. Her shoulders were stooped, the result of many years of carrying firewood from the forest beyond the village. Day after day the heavy load had bent her back under its weight, as it did the many other women whose lot was to carry wood.

After hearing the tales of horror Melanchthon had shared too freely with his father over their meal, Luther could see his mother glancing frequently at the crucifix on the wall above the stove. Her lips moved in silent prayer with the petitions and appeals she fervently offered to Saint Anne, the protectress of the miners. She still believed, as she'd once taught him, that the saints would help them if called upon, and they would intercede on behalf of mortals before the great Judge.

Luther peered at the high window of his father's house and listened to the patter of rain. He and Melanchthon would be on their way once the storm exhausted itself. As anxious as he was to leave, he was grateful for a few extra moments with his nieces.

With a grin he scooped up his second niece and tossed her above his head into the spacious open ceiling of the front common room. His niece squealed with delight, a sound that was sweeter than any tune on the lute. It plucked at the taut strings of his emotions, drawing out a longing he didn't want to name for fear he'd find discontentment in the course set before him.