Luther and Katharina (7 page)

He was quiet for a moment, searching her face as though attempting to piece together all that she hadn't said. “I'm very sorry to hear it, Katharina. Then I'm partially to blame for their pain.” His simple statement was laced with anguish. In the sunlight his expressive eyes were filled with a sorrow that moved her.

“We have only ourselves to blame for any pain,” she said. “We may have been forced into the convent, but we willingly read your teachings, Doctor Luther.”

“I'm glad you read them,” he said quietly.

“We did more than read them,” she admitted. “We lived and breathed your words.”

He smiled, and it softened the deep grooves in his forehead. “I can't take credit for the words. Most of them are straight from the Holy Scriptures.”

A thousand questions flooded her mind, questions about prayer and salvation and heaven and the church, questions that had left her restless to know more and to seek the truth. Did she dare ask him about some of the issues that troubled her? He pressed the carnation to his nose but then doubled over.

“Doctor Luther?” Frowning, she swiftly crossed to him, climbed over the sagging wattle fence, and knelt beside him.

He rocked back and forth on his knees, his body taut, his head bent to the ground.

“Herr Doctor, are you ailing?”

A groan was his only answer. He continued to rock back and forth for a moment and then finally pushed himself back up. He breathed in heavy gulps. A fresh sheen of perspiration glazed his face.

“How did you get your bruise?” He thrust his carnation back to his nose.

Startled at his abrupt change of subject, she touched the tender spot at the ridge of her cheekbone. “Tell me your symptoms.”

“You tell me about your bruise first.”

She was near enough to feel him shaking. “I'll make you an infusion of chamomile to soothe your aches.”

“I don't need anything.” He clenched his jaw, obviously fighting pain while stubbornly intending to make her share her story whether she wanted to or not.

With a sigh she told him about the night of the escape, climbing over the convent wall and running through the forest. “As we rested near the cloister pond, we were attacked by a group of peasants. One of them hit me.”

He stilled. His gaze skimmed over her bruise, then over her face before coming to rest on her eyes. His dark-brown eyes penetrated, probed deep, saw more than her words had expressed.

“Your turn to tell me about your sickness,” she whispered, suddenly aware that he was a mere hand span away. His size, his presence, his personality—they were magnetic, pulling on her heart in a strange way.

His gaze didn't waver from hers. “You've all been very brave, Katharina.”

Her throat clogged with sudden emotion. The escape and the ride to Torgau in the back of the wagon with the endless hours of jostling and fear was a nightmare she didn't wish to remember.

“You'll have to be brave in the days to come too.” He winced and grabbed his stomach. “Our debtors aren't paying their dues. They hold their purse strings too tightly.”

Once again he doubled over, and this time he retched violently. She held his robe out of the way. Whatever his ailment, surely she could find the right ingredients to help him.

“Come, Doctor Luther. I shall take you to the infirmary and make a drink to ease your pain.”

He lifted his head but then dropped it again. “Don't fret over me. I'll survive as I have before. The devil won't kill me like this. It would ruin his plans to see me burn at the stake.”

“Come.” She stood, careful to avoid the new buds and blossoms of the first spring flowers. “If the devil wants you, I cannot stop him. But I can stop your pain.”

He heaved himself up. “If your drink is as strong as your bossiness, then I'll be cured.”

She smiled. “Of course I shall cure you.”

She walked with him to the infirmary, a small room behind the kitchen. One side of the room was lined with shelves filled with tinctures and ointments and a variety of medicines the monks who had once lived there had created with great care. Next to the other wall was a long, narrow bench and a raised bedframe filled with stale straw. She had already taken stock of the supplies and found them lacking, but she had located a few of the herbs she regularly used.

Doctor Luther settled himself on the bench, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes while she steeped dried chamomile flowers in boiling water and added catnip, lavender, and honey.

Once the sweet aroma filled the room, she handed him a hot mug of the drink. “How often do you have this stomach ailment, Doctor Luther?”

His hands trembled around the mug. “More than I'd like.”

“What causes it?”

“No one knows. Only that I'm an old man with too many ailments to count.” He lifted the mug to his lips.

“Don't drink it!” Wolfgang appeared in the doorway, his overlong black hair askew and his thick brows outlining fierce eyes. “It could be poisoned.”

“Absolutely not.” Katharina narrowed her eyes, refusing to be intimidated by the man. In the short time she'd been at the monastery, she'd already noticed the way the manservant hovered about Doctor Luther as if the professor were one of the rare and holy relics of Christ.

“We don't know these nuns.” Wolfgang crossed with long, swift strides toward Doctor Luther. “They could be working for Duke George.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I'm only trying to ease Doctor Luther's discomfort.”

“Doctor Luther's life is always in jeopardy.” Wolfgang towered over her, his proximity too near for comfort. “We can never be careful enough.”

Though tempted to back away, she held her ground next to Doctor Luther and glared back at the manservant. “You certainly have an elevated opinion of your master. Surely the whole world isn't trying to kill Doctor Luther.”

Doctor Luther blew on the hot steam rising from the drink, a faint smile quirking his lips, as though he was enjoying the spat between the two of them. “You'd be surprised at how many death threats I receive. Many more than I can count.”

“No wonder your servant exaggerates. He's only imitating his master.”

Any trace of Doctor Luther's humor evaporated, and his eyes darkened at her underhanded insult. “You're right, Wolf. We must be careful. Sister Katharina might be trying to kill me.”

She wouldn't encourage him by responding, nor would she encourage the paranoia of his servant. She took the mug from Doctor Luther and swallowed a drink. The hot liquid burned the roof of her mouth and scalded her throat. “There, Wolfgang.” She returned the mug to Doctor Luther and finally allowed herself to take a step away. “Now Doctor Luther and I shall die together.”

Wolfgang's black scowl lifted for only an instant before resuming its typical deep crease.

“Your claws are out,” Doctor Luther said, his expression as murky as the liquid. “When you're riled, you're a hissing
Katzen.
”

“If I'm the hissing cat, what does that make you, Doctor Luther? Are you the growling hound?”

The gleam in his eyes hardened, and the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. Without taking his gaze from hers, he took a sip of the drink.

Wolfgang gave a cry of protest and tried to pry the mug from his master's fingers. But Doctor Luther shrugged the manservant away and took another sip, his eyes unrelenting in their censure of her.

A sharp needle of guilt pricked her. After Doctor Luther's kindness to her and the other sisters, not only in aiding their escape but now in providing shelter, she knew he was no growling hound. She ought not to have spoken so forthrightly. Should she apologize?

He spoke again before she could find the words. “If I'm the hound and you're the cat, then it would appear we'll have no camaraderie except quarreling. In that case, spare me your presence since I already have far too many enemies and need no more.”

At his rude dismissal any thought of an apology disappeared. She turned her back on him and started toward the door. “You may spare me your presence as well, especially since it appears your servant is doing such a superb job of caring for you.”

“I pray for the poor man who must marry you,” he called after her.

“You can rest assured, I will not marry a
poor
man.”

“You don't have many choices, Katzen.”

“I shall choose whom I wish,” she said as she retreated into the corridor and moved away from him with haste, unwilling to listen to any more disparaging remarks.

She didn't have a dowry, but she was of the patrician class. Surely that still counted for something. Surely a man of equal status would find value in her stock and in the qualities she'd acquired from her training at the abbey.

But even as her footsteps echoed down the deserted hallway, fear tapped a hollow rhythm in her chest. What did her future really hold?

T
he lid of the parish chest fell, and its three keys clanged. It was empty except for a few Gulden.

“Uncharitable.” Luther's voice boomed through the dimly lit vestry. He hoped the lingering congregants in the nave below could hear him. “Ungrateful.”

The vestry with its low ceiling and stone walls was as barren as the nave of the ancient Stadtkirche. All the statues of Mary and the altars in the galleries had been removed during Luther's year of hiding at Wartburg Castle. He'd returned to Wittenberg to calm the tempest, but he'd been too late to stop the destruction of many of the beautiful old artifacts that had once graced the churches.

Unfortunately Karlstadt, his fellow professor and one-time friend, had led the smashing and burning of the decorations and even now had a growing following of reformers who were willing to use force. Karlstadt's followers criticized Luther for being too conservative and for continuing to love the church with all its ancient customs.

Somehow he'd made enemies with everyone—both inside and outside the movement.

“Eventually the townspeople will give as they have in the past. We must be patient with them.” Melanchthon spoke quietly and calmly, watching Luther pace the length of the narrow room. For once his placid expression did nothing to soothe the turmoil rolling through Luther.

“They're thickheaded,” Luther added. “If they won't give generously after hearing an entire sermon on the fruit of the Spirit, then they never will.”

“I agree with Martinus.” Jonas leaned one shoulder nonchalantly against the wall near the open door and waved irritably at Melanchthon. The motion opened his fur-trimmed cloak, revealing the fine linen of a new black robe, a sign of wealth and status that was foreign to Luther. Unlike the humbler Melanchthon, Jonas was tall, had a darker complexion, and had a regal bearing that was formidable at times. Nevertheless, both men had become brothers to him.

“The people have been stingy and rude,” Jonas continued. “After all Martinus does for them, the least they can do is provide for his needs.”

Pastor Bugenhagen, the pastor of the Stadtkirche, locked the small wooden chest. “The people are reacting in fear. Everyone knows the danger in helping the nuns, especially now that they've been excommunicated.”

“We've all been excommunicated, and the town hasn't suffered.” Frustration forced Luther's voice to a higher decibel. The stores of food at the Black Cloister were low. They had used the last of the malt for brewing beer. The supplies Koppe had given them had dwindled to nothing. And now the situation was desperate.

He needed money.

Pastor Bugenhagen stood behind the counting table and folded his hands across his well-rounded chest. His wiry hair and long beard gave him a nomadic quality, causing Luther more than once to consider giving this shepherd of the congregation a staff to complete the picture.

“The men of this town know the elector doesn't support your efforts to empty the monasteries,” the pastor said. “If Elector Frederick implicates you in the escape of these nuns, they could face charges too if they help you.”

“Amsdorf's at the elector's court. He'll smooth things over with him as he usually does. Besides, I only need enough supplies for another week or two.” Luther stopped to face their wise pastor. “It shouldn't take much longer than that to hear back from their kinsmen.”

“Two weeks is too long.” Pastor Bugenhagen rubbed his long beard thoughtfully. The sunlight streaking through a round window at the peak of the slanted ceiling seemed to form a halo above his head. “You've already put yourself in a compromising position by having the nuns live with you at the Black Cloister. If you keep them any longer, they will bring you more disgrace.”

“I'm already disgraced!”

“Have you heard the rumors?” Jonas flashed a crooked grin.

“There are always rumors.”

“Not like these,” said Pastor Bugenhagen with a sad shake of his head.

Jonas's grin widened. “You're the debauching monk with a household of vestal virgins to use at your lustful leisure.”

Luther lowered himself to the bench next to Melanchthon and grinned at Jonas. “My enemies have given me the same privileges as the pope.”

Jonas snorted. Melanchthon gave a soft chuckle.

“This isn't a joking matter.” Pastor Bugenhagen frowned at them. Then he picked up his Bible from the table and flipped it open. “In all things showing yourself to be a pattern of good works—”

“Titus two,” Luther interrupted. “That one who is an opponent may be ashamed, having nothing evil to say of you.”

“Exactly.”

Luther understood the pastor's admonishment, but he shook his head. “By helping the nuns, I'm only doing what's right. I won't live at the mercy of the slander of my enemies. They want me to cower and hide. But I'm determined to stay true to God's calling to bring change to the church. I only wish that I could rescue all captive consciences and empty all the cloisters.”

Pastor Bugenhagen's expression remained troubled.

The small upstairs room grew silent. The rolling carts, clomping of horses, and calls of passersby from the market square outside the Stadtkirche seemed to fill the vestry.

“I'll write to Amsdorf,” Jonas finally said. “He'll find a way to wring Gulden from the nobles at court. He always does.”

“I'll send him a letter too,” Luther said. “If we both ask him to take up a collection from the courtiers, he won't be able to resist.”

“In the meantime I must insist,” Pastor Bugenhagen added, “that you do your best to get the nuns out of the monastery as quickly as possible.”

A sharp knock on the open vestry door brought Luther to his feet.

To his surprise Sister Katharina stepped into the doorway. Her shoulders heaved and her breathing was labored as if she'd just been running. She was still cloaked in her habit and veil. Even so, he was struck again by the loveliness of her face, the unblemished skin, smooth cheeks, and finely drawn mouth. In contrast to the stark white of her wimple, her blue eyes were keen, and they swept around the room, touching on each of the men before coming to land on him.

“Doctor Luther, you must come with us this instant.”

Luther bridled at her command. Why did she have the ability to make him feel as if he were beneath her every time she spoke? “You can be certain, my good men, that this Katzen will be the first one to go from the monastery.”

Sister Katharina's expression was cool, but he caught a flicker of urgency in her eyes that tempered him. “We're in need of an escort back to the monastery,” she said. “It would seem some of the townspeople dislike us.”

“What happened?” Melanchthon asked, rising, his face tightening with concern.

“After the conclusion of the service, we crossed the market square and headed down Collegienstrasse,” she said. “As we walked, we attracted a crowd. We tried to pass through quietly and calmly, but the taunts and comments frightened some of the sisters.”

Sudden anxiety swelled inside Luther, propelling him across the room to her. “Did anyone hurt you?”

“No, we turned around and hastened back to the confines of Saint Mary's. But we would feel safer with your escort.”

He stopped in front of her and caught the sweet and spicy scent of herbs that lingered around her. Her eyes were unyielding, but at the slight tremor of her lip, a strange protectiveness surged through him and made him want to reach out and touch her and reassure her that she would be safe.

“We're at your service.” Melanchthon stepped next to him, pushing him aside, and gave Katharina a customary bow. “I'm Philipp Melanchthon. These are my friends, Pastor Bugenhagen and Justus Jonas.”

She curtsied at the men and then offered Melanchthon a tentative smile. “Thank you. You're very kind.”

Melanchthon
is kind?
What about him? Irritation replaced all thoughts of concern. Didn't he merit a compliment and a smile? “Sister Katharina, I'll escort you and the others home. But you'll have to wait for us in the nave. We'll be down when we're finished here.”

Melanchthon raised an eyebrow at him.

“Aren't we done?” Jonas asked bluntly.

“No, we're not.” Luther glared at his friends, daring them to challenge him. Melanchthon and Pastor Bugenhagen looked at their boots. Jonas stared openly between Luther and Katharina, his eyes narrowing in what appeared to be nonchalant appraisal.

Sister Katharina curtsied again. “Very well, Doctor Luther. We shall be waiting.”

After she left, the men were silent and stared at him.

Luther flipped through the pages of his Bible and tried to ignore the embarrassment gaining momentum in his gut the longer they stared. Maybe he had overreacted to Sister Katharina just slightly. But he wasn't accustomed to speaking with women. They, of all people, should know that.

Melanchthon finally cleared his throat. “If they're all as fair and fine as Sister Katharina, then you'll have no problem finding husbands or homes for them.”

Luther wished he had Melanchthon's moderation and peace. He couldn't deny that at times he envied his young friend's ability to see the good in every person and situation.

“Martinus will be the first to take one of them as a bride,” Jonas said with a teasing guffaw.

“Absolutely not.” Luther knew his protest was too loud, but it was fueled by the swirling heat in his gut. “You can be the first, Justus. You need a woman to tame your crankiness.”

“I won't ever marry, and you know it. I'm one of those rare Paul types, those one-in-a-thousand individuals who would rather work on the kingdom of heaven and beget spiritual children.”

“Then we're alike.”

“Hardly.” Jonas's voice dripped with sarcasm. “The blood runs too hot through your body. You won't be able to resist marriage forever.”

Luther began to deny it.

“A feisty cat might be just what the old gander needs.”

“Ach.” Luther moved toward the door, ducking his head and praying his face wasn't as red as it felt. “Let's go.”