Luther and Katharina (9 page)

The tales of Doctor's Luther's courage had amazed her. How could anyone dare to defy the emperor and the pope? Thus far Elector Frederick had protected Doctor Luther from the emperor's death warrant. But now if all the other princes decided to enforce Charles V's Edict of Worms, surely Doctor Luther would soon face death.

“The princes have presented to Chieregati a list of one hundred grievances Germany has endured from Rome,” Wolfgang whispered. “It's called the
Centum Gravamina.
The nuncio says the pope will consider the grievances if they'll promise to hand over Doctor Luther for immediate execution.”

A chill rippled through Katharina. “And will they?”

“They're deliberating.”

Katharina stared with compassion at the black hood that hid Doctor Luther's face. How many more days before he was captured and put to death? “Then he has episodes because he's afraid of dying?”

“Fear of dying?” Wolfgang shook his head. “I don't think so. But fear of failing? Yes, he doesn't want this reformation to fail in any way.”

Katharina tugged at Doctor Luther's hood, her mind spinning. What could she do to ease the melancholy of a man facing prison and death? “Wolfgang, you must bring me Doctor Luther's lute.”

The manservant didn't move.

“Doctor Luther likes music?”

He nodded.

“I've heard him playing the lute?”

Again he nodded.

“Then fetch his lute and a cool rag.”

She slipped down Doctor Luther's hood. His eyes were pinched closed, and his face was pressed against the cold floor with one of his cheeks facing her. The line of his jaw was taut and his skin dark with stubble. His hair fell over his forehead, reaching almost to his eyes, but a vein in his temple throbbed.

She lifted her fingers to soothe the vein but hesitated. Did she dare touch this man? Her insides quivered at the thought. In the infirmary at Marienthron, the older sisters had allowed her to care only for the women. She'd never intentionally touched a man before.

A quick glance around the room told her she was alone. Thankfully, for once Wolfgang had done her bidding. She turned her attention back to Doctor Luther, and before she lost all courage, she pressed her palm against his hot skin. Her hand shook at the contact, and a strange heat formed a closed fist deep in her belly.

She skimmed her fingers across the scratchiness of his cheek and then pressed the pulsing vein on the side of his head. She gently massaged it, her knuckles brushing against his hair. The softness was unlike anything she'd felt before. And the fingers of heat in her middle began to unfurl one by one.

He gave a long sigh, and the warmth of his breath bathed the sensitive skin of her wrist.

Her face flushed with sudden warmth at the scandal of her closeness and the familiarity of her touch.

Wolfgang cleared his throat loudly, irritably.

She jerked her hand away from Doctor Luther and glanced up to see that the manservant had returned with the items she'd requested. She set to work, trying to ignore the new and confusing longings.

When she applied the cool cloth to Doctor Luther's temple, he groaned. She picked up the lute and plucked at the courses with a quill. The soft notes awakened memories of her childhood, the hours watching and listening to her mother play the lute—before her mother had grown ill. Katarina's fingers found the strings she needed even though her mind had forgotten. She hummed a simple tune, one her mother had often sung to her.
“Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf. Sleep, child, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the branches small. Lovely dreams in showers fall. Sleep, child, sleep. Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf.”

During the third time through the song, Doctor Luther's eyes opened, and he rolled to his side. His pale face emphasized the darkness of his eyes. They focused with unwavering intensity on her face. And she couldn't look into them without having unbidden thoughts about his hair and skin and how they'd felt beneath her fingers.

When she finished, she set aside the lute and reached for the Obstwasser. “Take a drink.”

“So, Sister Katharina, you're the one fighting the devil off my back this time.” He struggled to sit up and let her hold the jug while he took a swig.

“You're lucky I'm here to help you, Doctor Luther. The devil cannot abide me.”

“I can believe that.” A faint smile brought light to his eyes.

She couldn't keep from returning the smile. “You must take St.-John's-wort.” She held out the mortar.

He raised an eyebrow at the cloudy liquid.

“It will help ease the melancholy. Take it,” she commanded, “unless you're afraid I'm trying to poison you again.”

Wolfgang's low growl came from the doorway. But Doctor Luther's smile widened. He took the bowl and drank the liquid in one gulp. Then he handed the empty bowl back to her. “Anything else, Doctor Katharina? Perhaps another song on the lute?”

She shook her head. “No. A song from you perhaps but not from me. I've played the only song I know.”

His expression turned suddenly serious. His gaze held hers, and the intensity stole her breath. “It was a beautiful song, and I thank you, Katharina, for your help.”

The softness and sincerity of his words only added to the warmth in her middle. Once again she was keenly aware of how close she was to him, near enough to see the dark flecks in his brown eyes.

“You're gifted with medicine.” He searched her face, making a slow circle from her forehead to her cheek to her chin. And then to her lips.

She was sure her face must be red. She lowered her head, knowing it was a vain attempt to hide herself, and she spoke rapidly to cover her embarrassment at reacting so strongly to his nearness. “At Marienthron I was responsible for the herb garden and making the medicine. I studied the ancient recipes well. Besides, I helped my Aunt Lena in the infirmary.”

“I think we'll keep you here at the monastery to be our doctor.” His voice was low.

Wolfgang stepped into the room and loomed above them, his reproach radiating from his tense posture.

“You may call upon me, Doctor Luther, anytime you are ill.” She wished her voice didn't sound so breathy. “It's the least I can do in payment for the kindness you have shown us.”

“The good news is that you'll soon have homes.”

She handed him the Obstwasser again, nodding at it and indicating he should take another drink.

“Finally I may have convinced several of Wittenberg's wealthy families to take you and the others.” He lifted the jug to his lips.

“Then there are no husbands for us?” Disappointment slithered through her. If Doctor Luther couldn't find noble husbands among the many people he knew, how would she accomplish such a feat when she knew no one?

“I'm still searching. But in the meantime you'll move out of the Black Cloister into homes where your basic needs will be met and you won't slowly starve to death.” His eyes held an apology, as though he regretted his inability to provide for them better.

“You've done all you can,” she replied. Of course, she'd wondered over the past week why he had so little. He was Doctor Luther. Surely he could command payment for his preaching, teaching, and writings. But from the way things appeared, he had no steady income whatsoever.

“My servant, Greta, must come with me,” she said.

He regarded her solemnly. “In her condition I'm not sure if that will work—”

“I cannot abandon her when she's in such great need.”

He paused as if considering her request.

“Please, Doctor Luther?”

A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Ah, I see you are capable of asking when it suits you.”

“Occasionally.” She smiled in return. His brown eyes regarded her with rare pleasure. And that strange warm grip once again tightened in her middle. She felt her cheeks flush again and focused on the lute still lying in her lap.

Her mind returned to what Wolfgang had just told her about the revival of the death warrant against Doctor Luther. “These families”—she spoke hurriedly to cover her reaction to him—“are they sympathetic to your cause and willing to break the law to accommodate us?”

A shadow descended over his face. “They support my reforms now. But I don't know how long they'll stay with the cause after I'm handed over to Rome. When the flames of the stake stand before them, it will be easy to recant rather than die.”

And what would happen to her and the other sisters if the German princes finally arrested Luther? Would they be imprisoned and killed too?

“As servants in prominent Wittenberg households,” he said, as if sensing her fear, “my hope is that you'll escape detection.”

Servants?
Her insecurities about the future evaporated. “You're mistaken, Doctor Luther. We're not intending to live as servants.”

“But of course you will. What did you expect? To be entertained as royal guests?”

She stiffened. “We're nobility.”

With narrowing eyes he took another swallow of Obstwasser, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “The burghers have agreed to take you in as servants in their households. Be grateful, Katharina, that they're willing to risk having you at all.”

She stood and shook the dust from her habit. “I've not put my life in great peril to end up as a common laborer.”

“Well, your majesty, I'm sorry you'll have to descend from your throne.” He struggled to rise. Wolfgang rushed to his side and helped him to his feet.

“I will not work as a servant,” she stated with more calmness than she felt.

“You don't have a choice.”

A scream of agony came from a far part of the cloister and ricocheted off the walls.

W
ithout a word of leave, Katharina rushed to the stairwell, to the sound of slapping footsteps. Several of the nuns were racing down the steps, their habits flying behind them.

“Tell me who is screaming and why!” she called to them.

“It's Greta,” one of the Zeschau sisters responded over her shoulder. “Abbot Baltazar has captured Thomas.”

“Ave Maria.” Katharina's heart slammed against her ribs. She raced after the others, the drumbeat of dread increasing with each step she took. As much as her mind screamed to lock herself away in her cell rather than face the abbot, she stumbled out the front door of the cloister into a gathering of onlookers standing in the drizzle. She shouldered her way to the front but then stopped short, next to Margaret and Greta.

“And there is our Sister Katharina.” Abbot Baltazar stood next to a wagon. His loose tunic and scapular couldn't hide his bulky middle. And his black hood couldn't hide his bulbous nose and overlarge bloodshot eyes that were now trained on her. Rather than covering his hands in the wide mouths of his sleeves, he had them folded at his chest, revealing abnormally long fingernails. “Your Aunt Magdalena sends her greetings from the cloister prison.”

Although the news about Aunt Lena didn't come as a surprise, regret pooled rapidly inside, making her wish she'd tried harder to change Aunt Lena's mind about escaping with them. “You must release her, Father Abbot. She's not to blame for our leaving.”

Standing next to the priest were several peasants who had worked in and around Marienthron. Their weathered faces were hard and unsmiling, and they kept glancing at Abbot Baltazar as if awaiting his orders.

“Oh, but Sister Katharina, she has already confessed her transgressions.” Abbot Baltazar's smile was thin; the fatherliness of his voice was too sweet. “We also have custody of Leonard Koppe's servant, and he has made many confessions too.”

Greta sucked in a quivering breath.

Margaret put a steadying hand on the girl, whose face had the pallor of death.

Abbot Baltazar nodded to his men. They turned to the back of the wagon, lifted out the body of a man, then tossed him into the muddy street. He lay unmoving, hands and feet bound.

An anguished cry slipped from Greta's lips, and she lunged forward. Margaret clutched the girl's robe. Greta resisted for only a moment before she twisted away and retched.

Katharina stared at the man, and her stomach churned with revulsion. It was merchant Koppe's servant, Thomas, but he was barely recognizable. His feet were blackened and charred, evidence of foot roasting. His fingers had been smashed by the thumbscrew, his back mutilated by hot irons. The once-handsome face was bruised and smeared with blood.

How had the abbot managed to capture Thomas—unless Thomas had gone back to the abbey to seek out the father of Greta's baby and to avenge her?

“What good is a dead witness?” Doctor Luther called from behind her as he elbowed his way forward, trailed by a breathless Wolfgang.

“Martin Luther?” Abbot Baltazar eyed him, then raised his brow at his servants.

“I am he,” Doctor Luther replied. He hadn't pulled up his hood against the cold drizzle and instead exposed the full fury in his eyes and the anger in his face. “I don't need to ask who you are. I can already guess.”

Abbot Baltazar's fleshy lips curved into a smile.

“You're a servant of the devil,” Luther continued. “Only the devil's servant could torture a man the way you have this one.”

Abbot Baltazar's smile turned brittle, and with the flick of his fingers and long fingernails, he motioned to the peasants he'd brought with him.

The laborers began to creep toward Doctor Luther. Their hands touched their sheathed knives. Katharina's body tensed with the same urgency she'd experienced the night of their escape. “Beware, Doctor Luther,” Katharina said with a nod toward the men. Abbot Baltazar wouldn't dare attempt to seize Doctor Luther, would he? Not now in the daylight in front of a growing crowd.

Doctor Luther eyed the men, then pinned a steady gaze on Abbot Baltazar. “You've killed one man. Isn't that enough?”

“Koppe's servant isn't facing eternal damnation yet.” Abbot Baltazar kicked Thomas in the back. The bloody mass grunted. “But we castrated him, and he'll soon face judgment.”

Castrated?
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.
Katharina crossed herself and tried to push down the bile in her throat.

“Why are you here? What do you want?” Doctor Luther demanded, straightening his broad shoulders and rising to an imposing height. Wolfgang had unsheathed a knife and had it pointed toward the peasants moving nearer.

“I want my nuns back.” Abbot Baltazar's bulging eyes swept over the women.

Katharina fought against the urge to flee and made herself stay where she was.

“They're not yours,” Doctor Luther said.

“They belong to Marienthron, and it's my sacred duty to see that they return to their Bridegroom Christ and the Mother Church. If I don't attempt to bring these prodigals back, I'll stand accountable when they suffer the torments of hell.”

“You're the only one here who needs to worry about the torments of hell.”

Abbot Baltazar started to answer, but Doctor Luther continued, clearly accustomed to waging war with his words. “I think you want them back,” he said loudly enough that the growing crowd could hear him, “so you can defile more of them in your common brothel.”

“I've heard rumors that you're the one with the brothel these days.”

Katharina cringed at the abbot's accusation. Was that really what people were saying about Doctor Luther and her sisters? If they lived through this encounter with the abbot, she resolved she wouldn't hesitate to move out of the Black Cloister, no matter where Doctor Luther sent her.

Baltazar's men formed a half circle, like a net drawing tighter.

Wolfgang moved in front of Doctor Luther and waved his blade at the peasants. But they responded by raising their knives. Dread pulsed through Katharina, turning her blood to ice. No matter his good intentions, Wolfgang wouldn't be able to ward off all the attackers. Perhaps they'd been unwise to rush out of the monastery without a plan for how to prevent an attack. Should she usher her sisters back inside now while they still had a chance? But how could she leave Doctor Luther at the mercy of the abbot and his men?

Several young men in the crowd elbowed their way forward. Their cloaks and berets signified them as university students. “Do you need help, Doctor Luther?”

Abbot Baltazar's men froze.

Half a dozen more scholars armed with spears and halberds moved out of the crowd. “We don't take kindly to anyone threatening our Doctor Luther.”

He gave them a grateful nod. “Yes, let's give Abbot Baltazar a hand back into his cart and usher him from Wittenberg. Those who prohibit marriage and force perpetual celibacy on young women against their will have neither the authority nor the right to be here in our town.”

Abbot Baltazar eyed the students, who were closing around him. “Are you putting yourself above the pope and the laws of Christendom, laws that have been followed and accepted by saints and scholars for hundreds of years?”

“The Archbishop of Mainz is selling licenses to his priests to permit them to keep concubines. Shall we stand by and accept such a twisted practice even if our forefathers did the same?”

Abbot Baltazar scowled and again assessed the armed citizens of Wittenberg before his gaze lingered on Greta.

The girl paid no heed to the abbot and instead stared at Thomas with blank eyes.

A sickening thought lodged in Katharine's mind. Was Abbot Baltazar the father of Greta's baby? Katharina closed her eyes briefly to fight off the nausea that rose swiftly at the idea. As much as she wanted to deny that the abbot would do such a thing, she knew it was possible. He'd visited Marienthron all too frequently, and Greta had a comeliness that wimples couldn't hide. It made sense that the abbot would have noticed her. What if he'd taken advantage of the young woman?

Suddenly Katharina knew with certainty that he was the father of Greta's unborn babe. That's why Thomas had returned to Marienthron—to punish the abbot for abusing Greta. Apparently the abbot had captured Thomas before he could accomplish his revenge.

“Get our primary witness back onto the cart,” Abbot Baltazar ordered his men as he returned to the safety of his wagon. “We'll take him to Elector Frederick. Once the elector hears this worthless peasant's confession, he'll have no choice but to turn Martin Luther over to me, along with these wayward nuns.”

The men gathered Thomas without care and dumped him into the wagon bed. The man's cry of pain echoed through the silent crowd.

“I've heard rumors that Bundschuh peasants are holding secret meetings and plotting revolt.” The muscles in Doctor Luther's jaw were rigid, his eyes black with contempt. “Now I know why. They're treated worse than dogs by the very men who should shepherd them.”

The Bundschuh peasants?
Katharina's mind spun back to their escape from the convent, to the peasants they'd encountered at the pond, to the strange circumstance of their early morning meeting. Had the men been meeting to plan a rebellion? Had Thomas been a part of that?

Abbot Baltazar climbed onto the seat of the wagon and settled his tunic about his large frame. “I'll get my nuns back one way or another. You won't be able to stop the work of God.”

A chill crawled up Katharina's spine. God help her if Abbot Baltazar ever carried through with his threat.

“It's my sacred duty as confessor and overseer of Marienthron to restore all the sisters who've abandoned their vows.” The abbot looked directly at her.

The chill penetrated to the very marrow of Katharina's bones.

“I will not cease my vigilance,” he said, “until they are back where they belong.”