by Sarah Monzon
“You have turned my wedding celebration into a spectacle, Kampff.” Prince Ernst’s nostrils flared. “Let us withdraw to the solar to attend this matter.”
“Nay, Reichsfürst.” Kampff inclined his head to offer a semblance of subservience. “Let all be privy to the long reaching arm of the Almighty. Let all see what will be done to those who defy the head of God’s holy Church.”
Heads in the crowd nodded, their voices echoing Kampff’s proclamation.
“Very well.” Though the prince’s features grew taut, he swiped at the back of his cape and retook his seat. His arm angled to the side as if he gripped Clare’s hand beneath the table. “However”—his voice shook the rafters—“even the rebel Martin Luther was given an opportunity to recant his beliefs.”
A muscle in Kampff’s jaw ticked. “I fear it would be a grave mistake to allow this criminal to speak.”
“Disavow those alarms, for it is in my land and under my word we will proceed.”
The duke deferred with a bow, though his lips curled.
Prince Ernst stroked the hair upon his chin. “Arise, scholar.”
Lorenz pushed to his feet. The action placed his body close to Christyne’s own. Heat emanating from his skin soaked into her arm. Warmed her. Infused her with resolve.
If anyone could convince the people of the need for reform within the Church, it would be he. Were not the peasants in the crowd even now disillusioned by the abuses of the clergy? The Church’s greed? The unfair fact that they, being the poorest amongst men, could not buy their way into heaven through the purchase of indulgences like the nobility. Nor could they read the Holy Writ for themselves or understand the liturgy of the Mass, spoken in Latin.
Were these not causes of the uprising two years past? Matters which burned like hot coals left behind after the flames were extinguished.
What of the nobility? Even they felt the noose of the financial ropes the pope placed around their necks. But with the Church and the state sister and brother, power could be stripped of those who dared deviate from the legal course. Time had yet to tell what the outcome of the Diet of Speyer would be.
“What say you, scholar? Are you guilty of the charge of heresy brought upon you?”
Lorenz was yet garbed in the dusty and stained attire of a stable worker, but clothing could hide neither the intelligence that marked his brow nor the fire that shot from his eyes as he pondered matters of conviction and conscience.
“I am guilty of certainty in the Trinity. That Jesus was both divine and human. That salvation is given and accepted by grace through faith alone. That the Scriptures have the final authority, and that the priesthood is made up of all believers and not just those with enough money to buy the position.”
Whispers broke out across the room, and Lorenz raised his voice to be heard. “I am guilty of believing that all must have a personal commitment to Christ, and that this vow is essential to salvation and a prerequisite to baptism.”
“Not baptize a babe?” a woman at a far table shrieked. “That is abuse of the child!”
Lorenz waited. He stood erect, seemingly untouched by the anger his words provoked in some around him. When the outraged responses quieted, he spoke again. “I am guilty of believing that all have the God-given right to worship according to their conscience, neither swayed nor governed by state authority. That no secular power should coexist with Christendom, but instead the church is the ekklesia, the called out, who stand apart in society by faith and discipleship.”
“Such a thing will surely lead to anarchy,” the prince accused, his brows low over his eyes. Warning glowered from his countenance. The language of his body admonished Lorenz to pick words with care and tread with caution.
Lesser men would have cowered under such a look. Spouted words to sooth the ruffled feathers of one who had the power to end their life. Not so Lorenz. The fire that burned within his spirit flamed hotter, scorching the ears of those who listened and setting ablaze hearts tender enough to be touched by a spark.
Christyne felt her own heart flash bright in her chest. Pride for him welled, and she could not help the soft smile that graced her lips, though he stood trial before her father and all.
“Not so,” Lorenz answered with certainty. “For secular government has authority on earth, but not when that authority spreads to the coercion of conscience or the enforcement of beliefs. While the emperor rules over this land, there should only be one king over our hearts, and that monarch is not Charles V nor even Pope Clement, but our Father God in heaven.”
Kampff roared. “Will you yet let him speak? He has sealed his own faith with the words of his mouth. Neither the Roman Catholic Church nor the other rebel teachers wish the plague of beliefs such as his to infect yet more innocent, eternal lives. If he adheres to the belief that there should be two baptisms, I say we give him a third. Yea, one more to send him to where he belongs.”
Prince Ernst gave Kampff a hard stare before looking once more to the scholar. “I will give you one more chance to retract your statements.”
Christyne watched, studied Lorenz’s face, but he did not so much as flinch. He would not yield, this she knew. And she loved him all the more for it. Though the lions roared, gnashed their teeth, and blew their hot breath in his face, he would not bend the knee.
She braced the muscles in her middle. Prepared herself for his response.
“Even if given a lifetime, I would not take back words spoken with conviction and conscience.” His voiced resonated around the room.
Her father waited a minute before answering. “So be it.”
The two landsknechte warriors that had dumped Nikolaus upon the cold ground seized Lorenz.
“You seem to have forgotten your daughter, Prince Ernst.” Kampff regarded her with malice.
Her gut twisted then hardened.
“Christyne.” Lorenz said her name. In his voice, in that tone, the two syllables were enough. As with the night past, he did not attempt to dissuade her from her course but offered his own strength so that she not stumble along the way.
“My daughter is not a heretic, Kampff.” Her father’s voice was steel upon steel.
The duke clicked his tongue as if he were chastising a child. “My witness says she received a second baptism last eve.”
“Then she recants,” her father ground out.
“Does she?” Kampff walked his fingers along her shoulder and then pinched her skin hard.
Familiar gray eyes stared at her. “Daughter,” he commanded.
But she was not one of his men that he could order her about, nor could she obey him in this regard. “I am sorry, Father, but my life is Christ’s. I cannot and will not deny my faith in Him alone.”
Shouts arose from all around Christyne. So many voices that she could not make out the words that passed lips. But she heard Bishop Wilmer’s low timbre in outrage and the distinct cry of a woman.
Hands seized her upper arms in a painful grip and dragged her backwards. Her heels slid across the floor as her feet sought purchase.
Where were they being taken? Bright light burned her eyes and she blinked. Out of the great hall, across the courtyard, and through the portcullis the hands upon her pushed and prodded. A songbird perched on a nearby branch at the edge of the forest lifted up its beak and let out melodic tune before extending its wings and soaring into the air.
Would the breath of life within her breast be released from her body and fly to the heavens to be returned this day to the Lord?
The press of bodies jostled her, but she kept her focus on the small bird. A symbol of the hope she clung to. For though she would return to the dust from which she was made, she would but sleep for a time. There would come a day when Jesus would return, His breath and her body reuniting, and she would arise, resurrected, and meet Him in those heavenly clouds.
She stumbled to a halt and blinked her eyes into focus.
The lake. Its crystalline waters appeared serene, sunlight reflecte
d as diamonds atop its surface. Blue and clear, it offered life to the creatures of the forest. She used to come and rest at the shore, mesmerized by the falling water at the far end of its edges.
Now this watery sanctuary would become her final resting place.
A landsknecht approached with a length of rope, and she offered him her wrists as she looked about. Where was Lorenz?
There. His back was toward her, but he appeared to be speaking with someone. Her father?
Hurt sliced at her heart. Only moments left upon this earth and her sire did not wish to offer her a farewell but used the waning time to speak with another.
Fingers gripped her chin and yanked her head around. Kampff’s hard gaze bore into her. “Say the word, and I will put an end to this. I can save you.”
She wrenched her jaw from his grasp. “I have already been saved.”
He growled and stepped away. Nodded his head to another. In seconds she was hauled off her feet, carried into the water, and placed within a small boat near the shore. Lorenz slowly walked into the water toward the boat. He smiled at her as he boarded the vessel, his hands tied in front of him. A man holding an oar shoved the boat off the bottom of the lake and pulled himself into the wooden skiff. He rowed them to the middle of the lake and then stopped.
Without a word, he reached for more rope that lay in the bottom of the boat. He tied the rope first around Lorenz’s neck and then attached a large rock to the end.
Lorenz peered into her eyes as the man repeated the process on her. The fibers of the rope scratched her skin and bit into her neck. The stone lay heavy, pitching her forward.
“Fear not, my love,” Lorenz whispered before he stood and looked out at the crowd gathered along the shore. He moved to the side of the boat, caught her gaze, and then fell with a splash into the water.
Christyne gasped and scrambled to the edge. Through the clear water she saw him descend, bubbles escaping his mouth.
“You as well,” the man finally said as he shoved her over the side.
Cold stabbed at her like hundreds of needles and she thrashed about. Light from above, dark below. The weight at her neck pulled her down. Down into the darkness. Pain bit into her wrists as she tried to struggle out of the bindings, but they held firm.
Even as cold snapped at her from without, heat expanded within. Burst from her chest and flowed outward. The need to breathe grew. Pushed down on her. Overtook her every thought.
She must not.
She looked up, but only a prick of light remained.
The pressure on her chest deepened. Her throat constricted.
Must. Breathe.
Water entered her nose. Ran down the back of her throat in a burning path. Filled her lungs.
Jesus, receive my spirit.
The darkness swallowed her whole.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Germany, Present Day
“What are you doing here?” Amber blinked in case her homesick heart had conjured up the man before her. But there her brother stood, in the hall of her dorm instead of the middle of wedding preparations in England.
Michael grinned, his USN t-shirt stretched across a chest disciplined by years of hard work and sacrifice for his country in the navy. “Wow. Feeling the love, sis.” He pulled her forward in a headlock-slash-hug.
She pushed at his ribs and dislodged herself from his one-armed hold. “Jack know you’ve escaped the wedding pandemonium? You haven’t gone AWOL, have you?”
“She can’t get rid of me that easily.”
Amber shook her head in mock sympathy. “Poor girl.”
Michael leaned his shoulder against the door jamb, studying her with intense scrutiny.
Pleasantries now over. She didn’t need him to hop the Channel to the mainland as if she were a child, as much as she had been longing for home and the simplicity and straightforwardness of her life before…everything. Before the doubts set in and hardened like Play-Doh left out in the sun. Before her insides swirled like a whirlpool of confused thoughts and feelings for Seth. Before all that. She didn’t want big brother to come swooping in to save the day.
Of course, the brother to do the rescuing was the one with actual hero training. Oh well. If Adam were at her doorstep right now, that gossip rag would probably be getting sued.
She took a step back toward Michael and patted his scruffy cheek. The one thing that hadn’t stuck with him from his fighter pilot life: daily shaving. The close-cut haircut, yes. The overprotective streak, too much. The cocky attitude—well, he’d had that even before talking to a recruiter, so she couldn’t blame Uncle Sam for that one.
Meeting his gaze with the same intensity, she hoped he’d see what her family—especially her brothers—were too stubborn to admit. She’d grown up.
“I’m fine. Your job as a scout is complete. You can report back to the Carrington clan that I’m all good.” She exited the room and closed the door behind her. “If you hurry, Jack might not even know you’ve been gone.”
His footsteps echoed behind her down the hall. If she listened hard enough, she could detect the slightly uneven gait his prosthetic gave him.
“You’re cute. Delusional, but cute.” He caught up to her and gave her a look out of the corner of his eye. “You also have the day off.”
She slammed to a stop. “What?”
“I talked to your boss and arranged for you to have the day off so we could hang out.”
Counting backward from ten would do her good. Instead she clamped her molars together. “You can’t waltz in here and take over my life.”
He turned to face her. “When I read about your life in a tabloid, you better believe I’m going to do more than waltzing.”
Emotions didn’t march across his face like she knew they were doing on hers. Instead, he almost seemed as if he’d taken a page out of Trent’s book—feigned boredom. But behind the mask, she glimpsed a war of sentiments. Outrage that someone had dared to hurt his sister. Conviction to make sure she was all right. Powerlessness that some things were out of his control.
Some of the fight drained out of her. Love drove her brothers to be overprotective bores. If she focused on that, she found their heavy-handedness a little more endearing.
“I really am fine, Michael,” she tried to reassure him.
“Good, but I still want to talk to you.”
She should be grateful, really. Michael was handing her the perfect way out of what would no doubt have been the most awkward day of her life. She’d spent the whole night trying to come up with what she would say to Seth today when she saw him, but her mind had remained blank. There didn’t seem to be any words, when strung together, that would work. The only response to I love you that didn’t end with someone being hurt was I love you, too. And she hadn’t said that. Couldn’t say it. So, what did that leave her? Where did it leave her?
“Amber?”
She snapped back to the present. “Sorry. Let’s go.”
Turned out Michael had a taxi waiting out front. The driver handled the city’s traffic with ease, and they were soon leaving behind the bustle of the crowded streets for the tranquility of the countryside. Instead of skyscrapers, towering trees and lush, thick forests lined the road.
“Where are we going?”
Before Michael had time to answer, the curtain of trees parted, and her breath caught in her chest.
The castle.
The same one Jay-Jay had pointed out from the plane when she’d first arrived. The one she and Seth had teased each other over on their way to get käsespätzle.
A thought raced across her mind as the castle grew in her view the closer they approached. She shook her head, calling herself silly, but the thought grew roots and planted itself in her brain.
Almost as if the castle were a living and breathing entity, it sang out to her. Drew her close. Whispered promises of shared secrets. Of tangled destinies.
She inspected that thought from all angles. Could it be possible? Was there some
thing specifically for her that she was supposed to discover at the castle? About the castle? Or was this feeling of anticipation and foreshadowing merely heightened curiosity for history and trepidation for the heart-to-heart with her brother?
The driver pulled up in front of the entrance, and Michael handed him money with his appreciation. After paying an entrance fee, they walked around the ruins, taking in the stonework and reading placards.
“Did you know this castle played a role in the Protestant Reformation?” Michael asked as he gazed up into a stained-glass window in a side chapel.
That hadn’t been on any of the displays she’d read. “Really?”
“A princess lived here about the same time as Martin Luther. Story goes that she hid a man being hunted as a heretic right here in this castle.”
If Trent were telling her this, it would be an interesting anecdote. One he’d probably use in a lecture for his high school history class. But Michael? He didn’t say or do much without an explicit purpose. Although this was the most roundabout way she’d ever seen him approach a subject. Besides Jack, that is.
His gaze moved from the colored glass window to her. “Why’d you come to Germany, Amber?”
“Talk about a subject change,” she mumbled.
He smirked. “Humor me. Why’d you come to Germany?”
She placed her hand on the cool, stone wall, its rough edges nipping into her palm. “I wanted to help. You know that.”
His gaze bore into her. “I also know that isn’t the heart of it.” He walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, studying her. “Watching you during your last semester of school was like looking at myself in a mirror after the accident. Something happened that ripped the ground right out from beneath your feet.”
She released the oxygen from her lungs as she sat beside him. All the thoughts that had swirled around and chased each other for so long sprinted out of her grasp. She’d never given her doubts a voice before. She was afraid that, once she spoke her fears out loud, she’d never be able to gather them back up and tuck them safely inside where no one else could see.