Luther and Katharina (3 page)

The chill in the air nipped her cheeks and nose, and the dew on the grass seeped into her shoes, stiffening her toes. Behind her the sisters moved as silently as angels. These sisters who had been her closest companions felt the same desires and pondered the same questions. They too were willing to risk everything to get what they had been denied.

She could not fail them.

When they reached the physic garden, Katharina allowed herself a breath of relief. They crept behind the low hazel fences that supported the raised herb beds, each woman slinking through the maze, following Katharina's steps. She knew the garden better than anyone. Every new bud carried her touch; every tender plant of cumin and fennel and comfrey and dozens of other herbs had seen her hand.

A sweet waft of blossoming cowslip lingered in the air as if it had come to say good-bye. Who would tend her herbs once she was gone? No one would be able to take care of them the way she had.

She wanted to linger, but she slipped by silently, past the well, until they finally reached the safety of the orchard with its canopy of apple and pear trees. Once they were concealed among the tangled branches with their tiny buds to shield them, Katharina stopped and held up a hand.

She stayed motionless like the others and hardly dared to breathe, straining to hear any indication they'd been noticed. Next to her, Margaret shifted and cracked a twig underfoot. Her cold fingers found Katharina's, and Margaret squeezed them as if to say, “Almost there.”

Only the grove stood between them and the outer convent wall.

The guard at the rear gate would be breaking his fast with the beer that Merchant Koppe had given him. She hoped he'd be too busy imbibing to hear them. But they would need to be wary of the extra watchmen the abbot had appointed from among the laborers who lived and worked at the convent. Although the abbot had tried to keep their Marienthron community ignorant, they had heard whispered rumors and bits of smuggled news about other monks and nuns who'd left their convents, giving them hope they could do the same. Katharina had no doubt the abbot had increased his vigilance at both his monastery and the abbey, especially now that he'd discovered the Zeschau sisters' letter.

“This way,” Katharina whispered, giving Margaret's fingers a return squeeze before letting go to sweep aside a low twig. She led them deeper into the orchard, winding through the trees, thankful most of the winter's windfall had been raked away, leaving only moist earth and moss and the scent of damp soil. She ducked under limbs and dodged low branches until they reached the thick stone wall that surrounded the cloister.

She peered up at the patchwork of stones, despairing that the wall rose higher than she remembered. A distant bark of a hound echoed in the eerily silent morning. And she crossed her arms to ward off a shiver.

Greta edged past her and pushed aside a tangle of currant vines and brush to reveal a small mound of earth. “Here,” she whispered. “We climb the wall here, my lady.” Greta had managed over the past week to form a hill with brush and dirt. If they worked together, they could scale the wall aided by the small mound. Greta motioned she would go over first and assist with the descent on the other side.

Standing on the mound, Katharina linked hands with Sister Margaret, and they formed a step and hoisted everyone up, first Greta and then the others. She tried not to think about the dangers that awaited them on the other side—wild boars and foxes, thieves, and unfamiliar terrain. Instead she reminded herself of the future—the real lives they would be able to lead, the noble men they would marry, the children they would bear, and the families they would finally have after so many years without.

When they finished helping everyone else, Katharina signed to Margaret.
Your turn.

Margaret shook her head and stared into the orchard, her eyes widening to the size of Gulden coins.

Katharina followed her friend's gaze, and at the rustling and crackling of branches, her body tensed.
Holy Mary, Mother of God
…Someone was after them. With a burst of panic, she yanked Margaret toward the mound. “Quickly. I shall boost you over. Then you must lead the others north along the river.”

Margaret's thin face pinched with worry, and she clutched Katharina's arms. “I can't leave you.”

Katharina steered her toward the wall. “You must.”

“We won't make it without you.”

“I shall stall them and give you time.”

“Wait,” came a low, urgent call behind them. “It is I, Sister Ruth.”

Through the tangle of branches and budding leaves came the stooped figure of a broad-girthed nun. She moved cumbersomely and was dragging something with her.

It was indeed Sister Ruth, the one she'd thought they must leave behind for want of time. Katharina barely had a second of relief before she recognized the burden Sister Ruth brought with her. The Zeschau sisters clung to the nun in their effort to walk, their faces ashen, their bodies trembling.

The two girls were young, hardly more than novices, having taken their vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity just the previous Lenten season. How much had changed in a year so that they were now forsaking those vows.

Katharina reached for Fronika and Margaret for Etta. Sister Ruth, although as strong and wide as any peasant farmer's wife, relinquished her hold on them and staggered backward, her knees buckling. Katharina slipped her arm around Fronika to hold her up, and her fingers felt the stickiness of blood oozing through the girl's habit. She reeked of the mold in the cloister prison and the sourness of urine. Her glazed eyes met Katharina's, reflecting pain and confusion, just as they had when Abbot Baltazar had forced her to kneel in the courtyard, then had bared her back and lashed her mercilessly.

Katharina swallowed her frustration at feeling helpless, just as she had when she'd been required to watch the beating. She could do nothing to assist the Zeschau sisters then. And she could do nothing now, although everything within her demanded that she do so.

“Once we are free,” she murmured against Fronika's ear, “I shall take good care of you. I promise.”

Under the weight of the girl, Katharina stumbled toward the wall. “How did you get them out without being seen?” she whispered to Sister Ruth.

“I don't know,” the woman said, her chest heaving.

Dread pricked Katharina. She suspected Sister Ruth had not used enough caution during her trek through the cloister grounds.

“I couldn't leave without them,” the older sister said, as if reading Katharina's thoughts. She sagged against the wall and mopped her brow beneath her damp forehead band.

“Everything will be all right,” Margaret whispered, tenderly kissing Etta's bent head. “If we have compassion on others, surely God will have compassion on us.”

Katharina couldn't answer. Even if the abbot didn't know, they all were aware of who had been smuggling the Zeschau sisters the forbidden writings of Martin Luther: Prior Zeschau, their uncle who resided in the Augustinian monastery in nearby Grimma. Most of the time during his visits, he'd only been allowed to speak with his nieces through a lattice window that was too finely meshed to permit the passage of any documents. But on several occasions he'd brought them gifts and had slipped the manuscripts and notes inside.

Of course, the Zeschau sisters had then secretly passed the documents along to others. If not for the two young women, none of them would have dared to dream about leaving the only way of life they'd ever known. But how could they expect their escape to succeed with Fronika and Etta slowing them down?

Greta's hoarse whispers from the other side of the wall urged Katharina to action. Whether or not they reached safety, Katharina couldn't abandon these sisters. For better or worse, she would help them. And if the two couldn't keep up, then she would stay behind with them and send Margaret ahead with the others.

Katharina was the last one over the thick stone wall. When her feet touched the opposite side, relief surged through her. She fell to her knees and signed the cross.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.
She bent her head into the long grass until her lips connected with solid earth. The freshness of the recently thawed soil filled her senses with promises.

Her father had taken her away from her home when she'd been only five. For the first time in nineteen years, she was outside cloister walls. She took a deep breath of freedom, but along with the breath came a tremor of fear. An unknown world spread before her with its way of life so foreign to all that she knew.

Greta tapped her shoulder and with a jerk of her arm motioned for her to hurry. Her fair, unblemished face flashed with worry as she peered at the severe stone wall, the only thing that separated them from recapture. “Someone's awake,” she whispered.

Katharina stood and listened intently. In the distance, from inside the convent, came an urgent shout. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and Greta's gaze met hers with a gravity that confirmed her worst fears.

Their escape wasn't a secret any longer. Abbot Baltazar would gather a search party. They would have horses. And they would scour the countryside for them.

How far could she and the others get before they were caught?

L
uther stepped out through the arched portal of the Church of Saint George, and the faint streaks of dawn greeted him in the sky above Mansfeld. The soft chatter of other parishioners exiting the Easter service swirled around him.

He drew in a deep breath of the chilled morning air and allowed himself to enjoy a rare moment of peace. Although he hadn't preached, the message had been one of grace, and the Eucharist had satisfied his hungry soul. For just a few minutes, he'd been able to forget about the constant troubles that were closing in like a net around its prey.

A hand clamped on his shoulder, and he heard the gentle voice of Melanchthon, his traveling companion for this journey. “Are you ready to break your fast?”

The rumbling in Luther's stomach told him it was past time to end his Lenten fast, although he knew he could go much longer if he wanted to. He'd done so many times during the years he'd spent in the Erfurt monastery. There he had fasted until his strength was depleted. He'd locked himself in his cell and remained there to pray until he'd grown so exhausted that his fellow brethren had to break in the door. Thankfully, those days of fear and judgment and terror over his sin were in the past.

“Let's go eat,” he said, starting across the narrow street that was already busy at the early hour. The tall two- and three-story buildings were crowded together, their shutters mostly closed against the cold spring morning. The businesses and storefronts hadn't changed much in the years since he'd been a boy and had roamed the streets and gone to the common school with aspirations to become a lawyer. That urchin never would have guessed that nearly four decades later he'd return as an excommunicated monk.

Melanchthon fell into step next to him, his curly reddish hair poking out from under his low-crowned, broad-brimmed beret.

He was slightly shorter and much thinner than Luther. But what he lacked in physical endowment, he made up for in heart and intelligence.

Melanchthon's lean face and hollow eyes lent him a scholarly aura that was rare in one so young. At twenty-six Melanchthon had to keep a scruffy goatee in order to prevent others from mistaking him for one of Wittenberg's students rather than the distinguished professor of Greek language that he was.

“We must be on our way back to Wittenberg before the ringing of Terce,” his friend said. “I told my wife and child I would be back to feast with them this eve.” The worried glimmer in his eye revealed his words for what they were—an excuse.

Luther nodded and went along with him. “We shall get you home to your family as soon as possible, my good friend.”

The truth Melanchthon didn't mention was that Luther was in grave danger everywhere he went. Although he'd limited his travels since that fateful Diet of Worms two years ago when he'd been branded a heretic by the emperor and pope, he'd decided he couldn't cower from his enemies forever, even though they still wanted him captured, dead or alive. One year at Wartburg Castle disguised as a knight had been enough hiding for him. Now that he was free of the confines, he'd begun to travel again, much to the chagrin of many of his friends.

Ahead on the street corner, a crippled beggar sat in a pitiful heap of dirty rags and lifted skeletal arms at the many people passing him by. Luther's fingers went instinctively to the purse hanging inside his scapular. The leather pouch was weightless and empty. As usual.

“I have nothing to give,” he grumbled to Melanchthon.

“You're like the holy apostles,” Melanchthon responded in the same conciliatory tone as always. “You may not have silver or gold, but you give something much better. Hope.”

Melanchthon's words were meant to comfort him, but Luther had to stop before the beggar anyway. “Come.” He lifted the man to his feet. “I know where you can get a meal.”

“Doctor Luther!” called several people passing by. “There's Doctor Luther!”

Melanchthon sighed and Luther knew his friend was worried about the attention he'd drawn to himself. Nevertheless, Melanchthon stood back uncomplaining while Luther shook hands and spoke to those who surrounded him.

“Is it really true that I don't need to buy an indulgence to free my son from purgatory?” called a stoop-shouldered man clothed in rags almost as filthy as the beggar's.

“It's really true,” Luther responded. “The archbishop charges you so he can increase his coffers. But God's mercy is not for sale. It's free.”

Only with Melanchthon's gentle prodding did Luther finally move forward with the beggar still firmly in his grasp. When they entered the inn, Luther settled the man at a corner table but was himself once again surrounded by crowds. As he seated himself next to Melanchthon on a bench, the table rapidly filled with townsmen eager to speak with him.

After quenching his thirst, Luther lifted his tankard, signaling the innkeeper for a refill. In the dimness and haze of hearth smoke, the innkeeper nodded and began to squeeze his way through the swell of bodies around Luther's table.

“I agree with what everyone is saying,” Luther said to his companions. “There's no easy solution to the problem. But we can't let the devil stop us from doing the work of God.”

“What if emptying the cloisters is merely the work of Martin Luther and not of God?” asked one of the Mansfeld provosts sitting opposite him, his fur-trimmed
Schaube
hanging loosely over his shoulders. The question sparked another round of loud remarks.

The room had a low-beamed ceiling and dark walls and was lit by several flickering sconces. A cool breeze attempted to make its way through two small windows whose shutters were thrown open to the early morning, but it couldn't penetrate the air around Luther, which had grown stale and sour.

Irritation nagged him as it did every time he had to discourse with wealthy noblemen who thought they knew best. Why did they think their titles made them better than an average man like himself?

“If emptying the cloisters is merely the work of Martin Luther,” he said above the boisterous voices that filled the inn, “then you won't have to bear the guilt for dumping two of your daughters in the Wiederstedt convent. Right, Herr Kohler?”

“I've sacrificed them to God for a life of service and worship. How could that be wrong?”

“Did you ask your daughters if they wanted to worship in such a way?” Before they could respond, he continued. “God wants worship that is given freely, not forced.” The innkeeper reached the table and pushed a plate of cold salted herring, bread, and cheese before Luther and then refilled his mug. The man wouldn't expect payment. He never did. Luther knew the extra customers he attracted with his visits were payment enough.

The greasy odor of fried fish made his stomach gurgle. He nodded at Melanchthon next to him, but his friend shook his head, declining the invitation to share the meal.

Melanchthon was content to sit back and let Luther do all the fighting and take the fame and the food. His friend's kind eyes begrudged him nothing.

Luther wrapped his cold hands around his mug. He couldn't deny he relished the fight that Melanchthon was all too willing to abdicate.

“The cloistered life is one of privilege for our daughters,” another wealthy burgher said. “Where else will our daughters learn to sing the psalms, read and write, and speak Latin?”

“They're mostly learning that the church will use them to fulfill the lusts of the priests who oversee their souls.” Luther's remark brought guffaws as well as loud protests. But he'd seen firsthand enough abuse to know the men protested in vain. They blinded themselves in order to soothe their guilt—guilt for subjecting their daughters to the whim of every priestly overseer while they freed themselves from financial obligation.

He took a long swig of his beer and then spoke over his comrades again. “Everyone knows the abbeys have become nothing more than common brothels. You would do well to risk your goods and your life to get your daughters out of such places.”

“Then we're back to our same problem,” said Johann Ledener, vicar of the Church of Saint George, who'd preached the Easter message. “What shall we do with the monks and nuns who wish to leave the cloistered life? The monks have no skills. The nuns have no marriageable prospects.”

“As I said, there are no easy solutions.” Luther picked up his knife and stabbed it into his herring. “But I will say this: let the monks learn a trade and let the nuns marry whom they will.”

One of the barons slammed his hand on the table, rattling tankards. Several other men roared oaths.

Luther lifted the piece of fish and twirled it. He knew what he was proposing was radical. The unbreakable boundaries between classes had been in place for centuries. But just as he'd questioned so many other practices, perhaps it was time to question this one as well. “What's wrong with arranging a marriage for your daughter outside your class? If you can't afford a dowry that will bring a noble match, then you must consider other godly men even if they are humbler in status.”

Melanchthon nudged him and nodded in the direction of the door.

Luther followed his friend's gaze to the broad shoulders of his father, who was making his way through the crowd. His stomach cinched as tight as the cincture he wore over his tunic, and his knife slipped from his fingers, the piece of fish untouched. He slid the plate into the hands of one of the young merchants sitting near him. “Eat it. It's yours.”

He pushed himself off the bench and stood, trying not to hang his head like an errant boy in need of the rod.

“
Ach,
so here is my son.” The voice of his father carried above the clamor as he elbowed his way past those standing around the table. “I should've known he'd eat at the inn instead of going home to break fast with his family.”

“Good day, Father.”

“You didn't say good-bye to your mother.” His father peered up at him, his brows puckered together above his long nose and his lips pressed into a tight line. His face was washed and free of the soot of the mines, as were his hose and cloak. At such an early hour, however, there was a haggardness in his expression that made his jowls droop.

Born the son of a peasant, Hans Luther had labored hard over the years to better his position in the community. His marriage into the burgher middle class and a relative's money had afforded him the opportunity to invest in the copper mines. With the endless hours and sweat of his back, his father had eventually leased mines and smelting furnaces. For a time the mines had made him a wealthy man. That had helped pay for Luther's education to become a lawyer, the education he'd thrown away when he'd entered the monastery.

But the mining industry had fallen on hard times in recent years. Now the output of the smelters wasn't enough for his father to pay his debts. Hans had grown more disgruntled. And Luther's visits to Mansfeld had become even less pleasant and filled him with more guilt for all the ways he'd failed his father. Though his father had long ago grudgingly accepted his life being devoted to the church, first as a monk and then as a professor of theology in Wittenberg, Luther had never been able to shake the feeling that he'd let his father down. Just this past weekend during his visit with his parents and extended family, he'd felt his father's censure, though he doubted his father realized he'd given it.

“Join us, Hans,” said the vicar, making room on the bench next to him. “And tell us your opinion on the matter of monks and nuns leaving their convents.”

For several long moments the conversation buzzed again, and Luther had no choice but to resume his spot at the table, even though his head had begun to pound. He respected his father too much to abandon him, but such conversations usually left him keenly aware of his shortcomings all over again.

“Other monks are getting married. But my son, will he?” Hans Luther said, smacking his lips after a long drink of his beer. “If only he knew the pleasures he is missing.”