Luther and Katharina (30 page)

As he placed her next to her sister, both girls clamored for more of his attention, but their mother quietly admonished them to finish their work scraping and washing the dishes. Only then did Luther notice that his father and Melanchthon had joined Jacob in staring at him.

“They're good girls,” his father said with an affectionate glance toward his granddaughters. “It's just too bad they're not boys.”

Jacob didn't say anything. The grooves of his younger brother's face were lined with the grime of the mines, the constant reminder of his lot of hard labor. And Luther wondered if Jacob felt the same way he did—that he hadn't lived up to his father's expectations, that he would forever be trying to ease the disappointments he caused.

His father rubbed his sleeve against his large nose. His shaggy brows were perpetually angled in recent months, and his face had a new look of weariness. “It's clear you like children, Martin. I don't understand why you won't heed my advice to settle down and finally give me an heir.”

Luther's muscles tightened, and he glanced at his cloak hung on a peg near the hearth to dry. He'd rather depart in the pouring rain than have a conversation like this again with his father.

As though sensing the shift in Luther's mood, Melanchthon rinsed his greasy fingers in an ewer at the center of the table and spoke. “Martinus has other important matters that need his attention, especially with the surge of peasant uprisings. He'd do best to stay focused on the reforms.”

“It would seem he's caused enough trouble with all his meddling in the affairs of both princes and paupers,” his father remarked dryly. “Perhaps my son will have learned his lesson this time and finally return to his work as a distinguished professor.”

Luther could feel the heat of his ire rising no matter how strongly he wished to remain calm. “All I've tried to do is mediate peace between the two sides. Surely you can't fault me for that.”

His father shrugged. “You've done what you can to change the corruption. And now the rest is out of your hands.” Luther knew that was as close to an admission of praise as he'd ever get from his father. For the rest of his accomplishments, Luther suspected he'd always fall short.

Perhaps responding to the turmoil between them, his father lifted his mug of beer and shook his head in weary resignation. “Maybe you're too old now for any woman to want you.”

Luther's frustration mounted once again, “There are women who will have me. One former nun, Katharina von Bora, has promised to marry me if I but ask.” Once the words were out, Luther regretted his rashness in speaking them, especially when his father sat up straighter on the bench.

“Then I would like to see you ask.” His father narrowed his eyes in challenge.

Melanchthon frowned at Luther, his face sharp with a warning against saying more. “Martinus isn't going to ask.” Melanchthon had heard all about Jonas's conversation with Katharina and the bargain by which she'd weaseled her way out of a marriage to Dr. Glatz. Melanchthon had been none too happy to discover the promise.

“You're married,” his father said, pinning Melanchthon with a piercing glare. “You somehow manage to have a family and balance your work. Why can't Martin be like you? Why must he remain single?”

“It's my choice.” Luther's voice grew louder.

“Actually, we've decided for you, Martinus.” Melanchthon waved his hand as though the matter were dismissed. “We know you're not inclined to take a wife. But should you change your mind, we decided this wouldn't be the right time to begin thinking of marriage.”

Luther's body stiffened in rebellion at his friend's declaration. Did his advisors believe they could plan his life for him? “
We?
Nobody makes decisions for me.”

“We all gave our input,” Melanchthon said, “and we only want what's best for the cause.”

“No one's going to tell me when I can or can't get married.” He glared at his young friend, who had it all—a beautiful wife and now two children. How dare his friend deny him the same. “If I want to marry Katharina, I will.”

Melanchthon shook his head.

His father folded his arms across his broad chest. “This Katharina von Bora. I think I like her.”

Luther had half a mind to ride back to Wittenberg and marry Katharina tomorrow just to prove to Melanchthon that he could do what he wanted, that no man could control him.

Besides, if he married her, maybe he'd finally earn his father's approval.

Katharina knelt in the freshly tilled soil of the box garden. She dug a shallow hole, dropped the feverfew seeds into it, then smoothed dirt over the top.

She sat back on her heels and brushed her hands together. It did little good. Her fingers were dark and her nails crusted. After days of planting she didn't know if they'd ever be clean again.

She'd soaked her hands every night in lady's mantle water and applied an oil made from water lilies and roses. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her hands as soft and white as they'd been when she'd lived in the abbey.

Squinting against the sunshine that was bathing her in blessed warmth, she glanced around at the four gardens she'd already designed. The pathways between them formed the pattern of a cross. She'd grouped them so that in each bed the tallest plants grew in the farthest corners and the other plants diminished in size toward the center and pathways. When she finished, the garden would have twelve beds that formed three crosses, the perfect number, one for each of the Trinity.

Barbara had assigned several servants to build the raised boxes and till the soil. They had also helped her transplant many of the herbs from the Cranachs' town plot. But Katharina had claimed the sole duty of laying out the garden and arranging each plant.

Barbara had been right. The project had been the dose of medicine she needed. The days working outside in the fresh spring air, the freedom to create, and the hard labor had brought her a new sense of purpose. Although her singleness haunted her, at least among the gardens she could forget about it for a time.

And she was grateful that no one had pressured her anymore regarding Dr. Glatz. Two weeks had come and gone with not another word about the man. Apparently Jonas had followed through with his half of the bargain and had convinced Doctor Luther to cancel the arrangement.

Would she have to carry through with her part of the bargain, with her promise to marry Doctor Luther should he ask? A tremor in her chest made her suddenly breathless, as it did every time she considered the possibility. She was quite sure Doctor Luther would never ask her, but even so the thought sent strange anticipation through her. What would it be like to marry him?

Her mind flashed to the time in Grimma when he'd leaned in to her, his dark eyes trained on her lips and full of longing. At just the thought, a responding heat flushed her cheeks, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. She couldn't deny an attraction to Doctor Luther. But marry him? It was preposterous to entertain such a thought, not when he'd been so adamantly opposed to marriage. And not when she'd held on to the hope of marrying within her patrician class and being restored to a lifestyle that should have been hers by birthright.

“Katharina!”

She peered down the grassy lane and spotted Barbara Cranach waving at her, half running, half walking, her linen head covering flapping behind her like a goose in pursuit.

“Katharina,” Barbara called breathlessly again, “gather the servants.”

The urgency in the woman's voice propelled Katharina to her feet. She shook her skirt, dislodging dirt that clung to the linen.

“You must come back inside the town walls.” Barbara's round face was ruddy from her brisk pace and lined with more tired grooves than usual. “It isn't safe for anyone to be outside.”

Katharina glanced to the orchard at the far end of the plot, to the pig market down the road, then to the rolling fields beyond and the laborers hard at work.

Barbara stopped at the cross path, breathing hard and holding her side. “The peasants are revolting.”

A breeze lifted a loose strand of hair and sent a chill down Katharina's spine. The wind brought with it the moist manure odor of the swine farm.

Katharina returned her attention to the fields, to the peasants weeding the recently planted barley and wheat and others plowing the fallow field to prepare it for the next season of planting. Their backs were bent every time she looked at them; they showed no sign of revolt.

Barbara's eyes were wide with fear. “They appear peaceful, but at any moment they may strike out at us.”

“Why would they do that?” Katharina watched the men and the few women. Like her, they'd worked hard all week; they'd barely given her a glance. “We've done nothing to them.” The memory of Aunt Lena's torn habit and the splotches of blood on her thighs haunted her. What had Aunt Lena done to deserve their brutality? What had Sisters Maltiz and Pock done to deserve death?

“We just received news”—Barbara lowered her voice—“of the horrible, horrible death of Count Louis of Helfenstein in Weinsberg.”

The name didn't sound familiar to Katharina, but she swallowed her mounting fear and nodded for her friend to continue.

“The peasants besieged his castle and captured him and seventy of his men, his wife, and infant son. They formed a gauntlet with their pikes, played their fifes gaily, and pushed the count and those with him to their deaths.”

Katharina couldn't hold back the question that begged for release. “The wife and son too?”

Barbara shook her head. “They spared her since she is the natural daughter of Emperor Maximilian. But they refused to listen to her pleas of mercy for her husband and instead forced her to watch them butcher him. Then they threw her on the back of a dung cart with her wounded infant.”

Katharina shuddered at the image of that poor woman having to witness such brutality.

“The peasants are out of control.” Barbara's shaking fingers grasped Katharina's. “I'm afraid for you out here by yourself. Come back to the safety of town.”

“But the garden. I cannot desert it now…”

Barbara tugged her. “The peasants are savages, Liebchen. There's no telling what they'll do next.”

Savages? Some, perhaps. But was it fair to assume they all were? What about Greta and Thomas? She hadn't seen them since the day she'd escaped from Abbot Baltazar. She didn't know where they'd gone or even if they were still alive. But she couldn't ever think of them as savages.

Abbot Baltazar deserved the title of savage more than anyone else she knew. Whenever she thought of the way he'd abused Greta and likely many other women, she could understand Thomas's rage and the anger of all the others who'd been unjustly treated by those who'd been appointed by God to rule them kindly.

The abbot had failed. She'd failed. So many others had as well. But it didn't justify what the peasants had done to Count Louis of Helfenstein. Or what they'd done to Marienthron and Aunt Lena.

The nobility had grown too proud. She, Katharina von Bora, had grown too proud. And somehow things must change. She must change.

When she'd escaped from the convent, she'd thought that would be enough of a transformation. But she realized now that it had only been the start.

“S
low down, Martinus,” Melanchthon said, jogging alongside Luther to keep up.

Luther's stride lengthened, and he didn't pause to return the greetings of those he passed on the street. He scowled through the summer sunshine, blinded by the fury that had possessed him since the courier had arrived at the Black Cloister.

“The news of the battle is harsh,” Melanchthon said, his breath coming in gasps. “I realize that. But there's nothing we can do about it now.”

“Don't tell me there's nothing I can do! I'll do something even if it kills me.” Luther's blood boiled through him, scorching his very soul.

“Let's take some time to cool off first.” Melanchthon's footsteps slapped against the stones of the street.

“I wish I'd never written the letter in the first place!” Luther's roar made the women ahead of him pull aside in fright. He knew he ought to explain that he was not a madman, but he would only frighten them more with his angry ranting about how both prince and peasant looked to him as the cause
and
the solution to the problems.

“I told you the wording was too harsh against the peasants,” Luther said through clenched teeth. “But everyone agreed it was necessary.”

He'd titled his latest letter “Against the Murderous, Thieving Hordes of Peasants.” He'd written it shortly after returning home from his trip through Thuringia. He'd known he needed to speak out against the rebellion. It had become all too clear after his tour through Thuringia that the peasants wouldn't listen to reason, that they wouldn't stop their senseless rampages unless forced at the point of a sword. Even though he hated the use of physical force, in his letter he'd told the princes to stop the peasants, with violence if necessary.

But he hadn't planned on the princes butchering them.

“I'll make sure Cranach stops printing the letter!” Luther roared. “Today. And I'll write another, telling the princes what fools they are.”

They crossed Marktplatz and hurried past the vendors in the market square, past the tubs of eggs and butter, past baskets of beets and cabbage and onions, past wagonloads of goods brought in from the countryside for sale. The strong odor of salted fish mingled with the yeast of fresh-baked bread. The clamor of voices, the squawking of hens, and the squeals of children at play filled the morning air.

Luther ducked his head in shame. Most of the vendors were peasants. They would have heard the news of the battles too—thousands of peasants massacred, chained, and beheaded. And they would blame him as surely as he blamed himself. If only he could slip past the market without their noticing him.

He was sure they hated him now. After being their champion for so long, he'd failed them. He forced himself to move faster until he was nearly running. He couldn't face them.

“I should have known this would happen if I threw in my lot with the princes.” He stumbled over a crack in the stone street and caught himself. “They're a bunch of idiots.”

“
Idiots
that we need if we want the reforms to succeed.”

Luther shook his head. “Ach!”

When they reached the gate of the Cranach home, Luther barged through.

“Cranach, stop your presses!”

He strode across the bustling courtyard to the ground-floor room Cranach used as his printing shop. Without knocking he pushed open the door. “Don't print any more of the pamphlets!” His voice boomed against the walls.

The typesetter at his low bench jumped up and bumped the tray of letters on the desk before him. The tray crashed to the floor, spilling his hours of labor into a scattered mess.

The room grew silent.

Cranach rose from his bench, a half-bound book lying on the table in front of him. Concern filled his eyes, and he raised questioning brows at Melanchthon, who'd entered and was bent over trying to catch his breath.

Luther crossed the room and stopped in front of a string of wet papers hanging to dry. He reached for one and ripped it down.

“That isn't one of yours,” Cranach said calmly. “It's Melanchthon's.”

Ink from the paper smeared Luther's hand. “I'm sure Melanchthon doesn't have anything good to say either.” He balled the paper into a wad and threw it on the floor.

“Why don't you settle down and tell me what's going on.” Cranach started toward him, smoothing a hand down his forked beard.

“I can't settle down! Not when five thousand peasants were slaughtered at Frankenhausen.”

Cranach exchanged glances with Melanchthon. He knew they thought he was overreacting, but he didn't care.

“The princes massacred the townspeople, then beheaded three hundred rebels!” Luther pounded his fist on the worktable. “They even raped Müntzer's wife.”

One of the journeymen shook his head. “That isn't the worst, Doctor Luther. We just got the news of the battle near Alsace. Eighteen thousand dead peasants.”

“No.” Luther looked to Cranach for confirmation.

Cranach waved a hand to silence his worker, but his sad eyes testified to the truth of the statement.

Pain shot through Luther's chest as if someone had slashed it with a searing hot poker. The intensity took his breath away.

“They had no chance against the knights,” the journeyman continued. “The peasants broke formation in the face of the charging cavalry. Their farm equipment was no match for the long pikes of the Landsknechts.”

Luther heard a drumroll of death begin in his head. He could picture the battlefield, the pikes slicing through the peasants, the horses trampling them underfoot.

“Don't say any more.” Cranach's sharp command stopped the journeyman's next sentence. But the man's words of horror already hung in the air.

Cranach started toward Luther. “You look pale. Maybe you should sit down.”

The drum in Luther's head pounded louder. He gripped his head and groaned. The pressure was too much. “What have I done? What have I done?”

The peasants had trusted him, had believed he would help deliver them from their oppression. When he'd allied himself with the princes, he'd betrayed them, his people. Now the guilt of their deaths fell upon his shoulders.

Cranach reached for his arm. “Come with me. We'll go get a drink.”

Luther brushed him away. The room swayed under his feet, and he stumbled like a drunken man. “When will the princes stop?” he shouted, throwing out his arms, trying to balance himself.

Cranach grabbed him.

“Will they stop when they've finally murdered every peasant in Germany?” Blackness hovered before him. It was the dark hole of melancholy. He hadn't fallen into it recently, but this time his body pulled him toward it, and he couldn't resist.

His knees buckled and darkness swallowed him whole.

Visions of headless peasants filled his dreams. They chased after him and reached for him with their bloody hands. He couldn't escape even though he never stopped running. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing.

We know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.
The verse from Romans drifted in the distance. He raced faster and tried to grasp it, but it slipped from his fingers.

The princes laughed at him from atop their horses.

He wanted to yell at them, to tell them that he didn't care if they supported the reforms anymore. But his voice rumbled in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make a sound. They'd gagged him and left him to take the brunt of the blame and anger for their brutality.

“We've done everything we can.” Voices sounded above him.

Cool fingers brushed against his forehead.

“The physician bled him?”

“He thought if he drained the melancholy blood out of him—”

“Bring me the cool rag and the Obstwasser.”

The fingers lifted his hair, gently like a heavenly breeze.

He strained upward, craving more, but his body had turned to bronze.

Faint strains of music called to him.

“Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf. Sleep, child, sleep.” A sweet voice beckoned him. “Sleep, child, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the branches small. Lovely dreams in showers fall. Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf.”

“Katharina?” he mumbled, trying to open his eyes and sit up.

The music stopped. “I'm here.”

He fought through a dizzy wave of darkness but couldn't pull himself out of the deep pit into which he'd fallen.

The soft plucking of the lute started again. This time she hummed the tune of the lullaby.

His body began to relax. Slowly the dizziness cleared and the blackness dissipated. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the drooping canopy of bed curtains above him. The thick burgundy layers had been pulled open to the confines of a strange bedroom.

Where was he? What had happened?

“Katharina?” He reached out a shaking hand.

Her fingers met his. The feel of her cool skin was a balm against his hot flesh. With a sigh he laced his fingers through hers and then lifted her hand to his cheek and pressed it to the heat of his face.

In the dimness of the room, her pale face, framed by her golden hair, hovered near. “You look like an angel. Am I in heaven?”

She smiled. Perched on the boarded edge of the bed, she held the lute and appraised him with concern.

“You're not dead yet, Doctor Luther. Although with as much blood as the physician drained from you, I'm quite surprised you're not.”

He took in the black slit on his lower arm, still oozing blood, and became conscious of the sting of the wound.

“So they couldn't bleed the melancholy out of me?”

“They tried. But then Wolfgang begged Master Cranach to send for me.”

“Wolfgang?” His trusted old servant had actually asked for Katharina? “Wolfgang must have been really worried about me to send for you.”