After, with Girt and Hans irrevocably united, the wedding party and invited guests moved back to the Brummbär Inn, where Frau Dunkel had laid a feast of roasted pork and vegetables, platters of pastries, and beer that seemed to flow endlessly throughout the day. Unused to such excess, I found my place against the wall, close to the stairs so I could make a quick escape once the celebration ran its course. But it seemed unwilling to end. When one pig’s carcass was picked clean, a table-length platter of sausage came to take its place. Loaves of bread appeared at the miraculous rate of those that fed the gathered crowds in the Gospels. Each cake was declared sweeter than the one before.
Girt and Hans rarely left their place of honor, sitting at a table on a raised platform along the longest wall. By afternoon, Girt’s cheeks were flushed red from so much laughter. Hans proved to be an attentive groom, keeping her hand in his, kissing her fingers in a way that made me glad for the shadows to hide my own blush. Clearly, she presented just as succulent a feast as anything passed on the platters.
And Luther was everywhere. Not once allowing himself to settle at any table, he wandered the place with a shank of meat and a mug of beer, stopping the moment anyone tugged on his sleeve. There were few children in attendance, but those present clearly loved him. They clung to his leg and snuck coppers from his pockets. He indulged them, briefly, but moved on, and in watching him I detected a purposeful pattern. He would engage in conversation with a particular gentleman, leave him laughing, and immediately make his way to speak with one of my Marienthrone sisters. Soon after, a path was created, bringing the sister to the gentleman, after which Luther backed away, appearing discreet to anybody not watching as closely as I.
Apparently, however, I was not alone in my observation. Frau Dunkel sidled up to me, carrying five roasted pigeons on a spit.
“What he’s doing there,” she said with an unconcealed sneer. “As if we don’t have enough women to marry off. Me and my Bart with four big girls of our own, plus the littlest, and scarcely a man worth the price of a wedding breakfast, let alone a feast like this one. Cleared out the rest of the donations, this did.”
Before I could ask her to clarify, a burst of cheers rang out from the crowd as an assembly of musicians arrived. Four hearty men worked to move the bride and groom’s table to the floor, giving that space to the band. With renewed purpose, Luther himself joined the group, speaking closely with the young man bearing the lute. Whatever his message, it was passed from the lutist to the two players of pipes, the mouth harpist, and finally, the boy with the drum strapped round his neck.
“Pfui,” Frau Dunkel said, achieving a new level of disgust. “He means to sing.” She moved the spear of pigeon aside to cross herself. “He means to make his mark in the hymnal, too. Might want to refill that to make it come across a little easier.”
She indicated my mug of beer, still nearly as full as it had been when it was first thrust upon me to be raised in a toast to the health of the bride and groom. My lips had recoiled at the taste, and no further sips had been successful. Still, I raised it in salute to her retreating back, as she’d been summoned to deliver the birds to a ravenous family of farmers.
I watched, fascinated, as the musicians assembled themselves around Luther, keeping their eyes trained on him as beer sloshed over the lip of the mug in his outstretched hand.
“What a joy it is,” he said, speaking above the crowd until they eventually hushed themselves, “to see these two committed to the intentions God held at creation. That man and woman would join in marriage, build a home, and create children.”
There was a robust cheer at this last statement, which Luther acknowledged with another hoist of his drink. Hans drew Girt close to his side, and her smile peeped from underneath the hands she’d brought up to cover her face.
“Sister Girt,” Luther continued, “now Frau Bendel. A good woman now avowed to make Hans a better man. I would ask that you—and all of those here to celebrate you—would indulge me in rendering a bit of God’s Holy Word as a prologue to your life of worship together.”
A smattering of good-natured groans erupted, but Luther ignored them, taking a long draught of his drink before setting it on the closest table and giving the musicians the signal to begin playing.
The tune was solemn, familiar, and by the third note, the crowd settled to match its quality. After a measure, Luther took a deep breath and sang:
That man a godly life might live,
God did these Ten Commandments give
By his true servant Moses, high
Upon the Mount Sinai.
Have mercy, Lord!
We all echoed, Have mercy, Lord, and by the end of the second stanza, recognized the choral nature of the line. He went on to sing of each commandment, each meant to target the newly married couple, though he occasionally scanned the room to remind us that none were exempt.
Be faithful to thy marriage vows,
Thy heart give only to thy spouse;
Thy life keep pure, and lest thou sin,
Use temperance and discipline.
Have mercy, Lord!
His voice could best be described as not unpleasant, but Luther sang each line as if he himself had crafted the words—not just the lyrics, but the essence of the commands. I knew the story: Moses ascended the mountain, returning with the Law meant to govern the children of Israel. I knew, too, that Christ had come to offer grace to anyone who lived outside that Law. And now Luther sang with hooded eyes and half a smile, reminding us all of things that should have been long ingrained, the embodiment of the ease of obedience.
Help us, Lord Jesus Christ, for we
A mediator have in thee.
Our works cannot salvation gain;
They merit but endless pain.
Have mercy, Lord!
There was a moment of silence during which no one spoke, no one moved. Even the musicians kept their instruments in frozen animation—lips pursed over the pipes, hand suspended above the strings. A silent amen. Then, a few in the crowd made the sign of the cross, and Luther stepped down from the stage. He lifted his drink high, saying, “Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth.” A cheer greater than any yet emitted rang out. The band launched into a lively tune, drawing Hans and Girt out from behind the table scraps of their feast. Hans lifted her high, spun her round, and dropped her midstep into the dance.
Where Girt learned to dance, I have no idea. Perhaps as part of creation, God designed our feet to respond to music. As a spider knows instinctively how to weave a web, so did Girt weave herself through the assembled dancers who joined them on the cleared floor. My own toes tapped beneath my skirt, and I studied, imagining a ribbon pulled through one pass to another, hoping to create a pattern of the steps I could follow later, should someone ask me.
So caught up was I in my mental exercise, I failed to see Luther winding his way toward me, and not until he sat on the steps beside me did I notice his arrival.
“It is no accident that Jesus chose to perform his first miracle at a wedding.” He spoke as if we had been engaged in a conversation all this time, and I played along, turning in my seat. He touched his cup to mine and took a long drink. “It is a day marked with hope. A time to reflect on the providence that brought the two lovers together and a foretaste of life’s joys to come.”
“Are all marriages so consumed with joy?” I, too, took a sip, trying not to cringe at the bitterness.
“Sadly, no. But hope never considers the evidence. It is infectious, bringing everyone to mind of embarking on such a journey. Do you see?” He directed my gaze to Sister Margitta. Her head, swathed in a scarf the color of wine, was bent to give ear to a stout, florid-cheeked gentleman. As I watched, she brought her hand up to capture a giggle, making the last decade of her years fall away.
“What are you implying?” I asked, though a stirring deep within me knew.
“Not all marriages are the beginning of a new family, but one is never too
old to begin a new life. He is a gentleman, wife long dead and children grown, in need of a companion. She is . . . Well, you know quite well what she is.”
“And you think he will make her an offer of marriage?” The thought of Sister Margitta, who had known nothing but life in a convent for the better part of half a century, suddenly taking on the role of a new bride might have conjured something akin to revulsion, had the gentleman not at that moment taken her hand to lead her in a dance.
“He will make such an offer,” Luther said. “He already has, in an agreement given to me. There are several here with husbands waiting, if they will have each other.”
“Husbands for all?” I scanned the room, wondering which homespun farmer might be marked for me.
“Not all. Some are returning to their families. I’ve received correspondence and have arranged transport. Will I be hearing anything from your father soon?”
I set my drink on the table nearby and studied my folded hands. “No, I think not.”
“Ah. Have you gotten word, then? Will you be returning home?”
I gave my response in a simple syllable, “No,” and would have been content to close the subject with such, but Luther pressed on.
“No, you haven’t received word? Or, no, you won’t be returning home?”
“This day is to inspire hope, and I cannot possibly envision any hope for a future there.”
“Not even to tend to him in his doting age?”
“He has a wife to tend to him in his doting age. And his sons, too. My brothers, who I’m sure have not given me more than a thought since I left. Our fortune is small enough to split among the three of them. They would hardly welcome a fourth party.”
“But surely, in your hometown, you would be more likely to find a suitable match. He could arrange one for you.”
I twisted my body to face him more directly. “You must remember, I am from a noble family plagued with poverty. Whatever dowry my father could have afforded would have been laughable to any ‘suitable match.’ So he gave it—and me—to the church. There’s nothing left, nothing in the family coffers for me. I have only my fading youth and questionable beauty to offer.”
I cringed at my unintentional rhyme and waited with unbidden eagerness for him to contradict the status of my beauty. He did not.
“Clearly you’ve an intellect that will make it a challenging task as well. Few men are likely to be eager to share their lives with a woman who will bring both age and wisdom down the aisle.”
I drew back, the better to assess if I should feel insulted or flattered. His face held too maddening a neutrality to know for sure, so I responded in the same vein.
“Perhaps, like you, Herr Luther, I can continue my studies. Become an infamous female theologian and hire myself out as an occasional minstrel. My intellect might not reach the depth of yours, but I’d wager our vocal ability is equally matched.”
He laughed, drained his cup, and summoned Marina to bring him another.
“And sharp-tongued, too?” He wiped his mouth with his frayed sleeve. “Why, you are a treasure.”
“You seem steeped in bachelorhood yourself, I notice. See, there we are equally matched as well.”
“I’ve far less to offer a woman than you to offer a man. Nothing but a small, moldy room. Full of books and paper and ink. And this?” He bent his arm to show me an ill-patched hole in the elbow of his coat. “This is the best of my clothing.”
“And those two?” I pointed to Hans and Girt—she sitting on his lap, his head dangerously close to being nestled in her ample bosom. “Do they have much more than that?”
“He has a cottage. And a proper job, plus a bit of land. They’ll have chickens and youth and health. What more could they need?”
“She is older than I. Three years, at least.”
He had the decency not to appear shocked at the news. “Perhaps, but she has more of a girlish spirit than I expect you ever had.”
Marina arrived with a freshly filled mug for him, and he slipped her a coin for the favor. I was thankful for the distraction from the thread of our discourse. It seemed a perfect opportunity for me to excuse myself. I stood, ran my palms along my skirt to both smooth the fabric and dry the nervous sweat that had accumulated. Because he sat on the stairs, there was nothing to do but to ask him to let me pass.
“I’m still quite exhausted from our journey. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
“Come now, Sister. You couldn’t possibly sleep with this racket going on. Might as well stay and enjoy. If it is my company that tires you, I shall gladly find an audience elsewhere.” He stood up and stepped down, bringing our heights equal to each other.
“It is not, I assure you.” I put a hand to my temple just in time for a real pain to emerge. “And I shall quite enjoy closing my eyes and listening to the music, carrying the vision of the dancers to my dreams.”
Luther stepped back, holding my gaze, and as he did so, all the noise around me muffled, as if I’d wrapped a wimple of wool five layers thick around my head. Some realization slowly dawned upon him, for a smile unfolded, traveling from the center of his lips to the depths of his eyes.
“Rest up,” he said, conscripting my idea as his own. “I’m taking you with me tomorrow to Wittenberg.”
“Hasn’t that always been the plan? To take us to Wittenberg?”
“Yes, but I plan to escort you personally.”
“Where? Why?”
“That, we shall see together, Sister—wait. I don’t suppose I should call you Sister anymore, should I?”
“I suppose not, though I would still like to be counted as your sister in Christ.”
“And I, your brother.”
He reached for my hand, and I gave it to him, unprepared for what it would feel like to have his thumb brush across the back of my knuckles. Moreover, to have it brought to his lips, to have the back of it kissed once, and then again, as if sealing the first.
“Until we meet again, my Kate.”
CHAPTER 16
I promised Girt I would write. Immediately upon arrival, and then monthly, if possible, thereafter.
“What am I going to do with a letter without you to read it to me?” It was the afternoon after her wedding, and she was giggly. Flushed and distracted.
“It will be an incentive for you to learn. So we can spare Hans the embarrassment of reading all of our salacious details.”
“As if I would,” she said once her rosy face was permitted to leave the sleeves in which it was buried. “And just what exploits do you have planned in the great town of Wittenberg?”
“Nothing compared to yours, I’m sure. But—” and here I became solemn—“I have prayerful hope that God will provide such happiness for me as he has for you.”
“Oh, Kat!” Unable to contain her joy, she reached across the table and clasped my hands. Were we not under the curious gaze of Frau Dunkel, who wielded a broom with ferocious intent, Girt might have leapt across the table. “I could never have imagined such happiness could have been possible. If you’d told me years ago, when we were girls, that someday I would feel this . . . full. Like I’m about to burst.”
Frau Dunkel clucked her tongue, but I sensed amusement behind her show of disapproval.
“Sweet, sweet Sister,” I said, squeezing her fingers, “your happiness brings me the same. I wish Therese—”
“She’s found her own peace.”
We embraced, each of us shedding hot tears onto the other’s shoulder. Then laughing at the ridiculous display. Then crying again. More.
“Silly,” Girt said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “You’d think we’ve never said good-bye to anyone before.”
I kissed her cheek, promising to keep her in my prayers, and as I did, spied Hans waiting shyly in the doorway.
“Your husband’s here,” I said, gently turning her toward the door. In that instant, I was forgotten. Her tears dried; her steps quickened away from me. The last I saw of my dear friend
Girt, she was hand in hand with the handsome Hans, bathed in the fullest light of day. When he led her out that door, he awakened a fear greater than any I’d experienced in my captivity or escape.
In all my longing for freedom, for choice, I’d shielded myself from the truth that neither would be afforded to a woman alone. How could I be free while dependent on strangers? How could I choose to be a married woman unless someone asked me to be such? All very well for a man like Luther to decide not to marry. As a woman, I’d have that decision made for me, and I had so little to sway attention to my favor.
At the age of twenty-four, I was neither young nor old. While my particular mix of features kept me from claiming true beauty, I could not accept the idea that I was homely enough to inspire pity. Not until I ventured beyond the convent walls did I realize the extent of my opinionative nature, my tendency to verbosity, the quickness of my wit—all of which no doubt made me a less-attractive prospect as a submissive wife. And judging by just the past moment, when Hans stood in the doorway, summoning Girt with little more than a clearing of his throat, I knew men wanted a woman prone to be sweet-natured and compliant.
Little had I known that I was neither.
The next morning, early enough to be closer to night, with a sack full of sausage and biscuits courtesy of Frau Dunkel, I stepped out of the Brummbär Inn and found myself, for the second time in only a week, being hoisted up into a farm cart. This time, however, I was given a seat on a plank affixed across the wagon bed, and instead of the affable Hans, the driver was a soured old man with the hallmark of being a silent traveling companion.
“I’m sorry there wasn’t any money for a proper carriage,” Luther said. He’d been waiting for me in the candlelight when I descended from my room an hour before. Now he remained on the ground, looking up at me—eerily reminiscent of the first time I saw him. “Do you have your things?”
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