Loving Luther

by Allison Pittman

  I held up the canvas bag. “I have dinner and the clothes on my back.”

  “And this.” He handed me a small purse. I could count the few coins within it through the silk. “More importantly, this.” A single folded sheet of paper, wax sealed. “A letter of introduction, bearing my testimony that you are a fine, upstanding Christian woman, worthy of the noble hospitality.”

  A sobering truth dawned. “Are you not coming with me? You said you would escort me personally.”

  A guarded look shadowed his face. “I’m afraid I cannot. My life, I’m sorry to say, is not entirely my own. At times it is best that I not be on the open roads.”

  I dared not question further, not about his peril. I had enough of my own. “Are they expecting . . . Do they know me?”

  “They are a family who gave generously when I asked for funds to bring you and the other women out of Marienthrone. One family of many, and I asked if some would be willing to open their home for a time, for those who would need a place to live.”

  “And they said yes?”

  “Why else would I be packing you away, having only recently become acquainted with your entertaining company?”

  I was not sure whether or not to find irony in his words, but I did detect that he had not answered my question, so I posed it again.

  “They did not refuse,” he said with assurance.

  “So what am I to say when my carriage arrives at their door? Should we maybe toss in a couple of pigs? Or some bags of grain so they’ll think I’m just part of a delivery?”

  “Nonsense,” Luther said, refusing to acknowledge my sarcasm. “Then old Hovart here would have to take you round to the back, and you’d get your shoes all muddy walking up to the house. No, better to arrive a perfectly respectable passenger, sent with a perfectly respectable introduction and reference of character. Oh, and one more thing.”

  He stepped aside to reveal young Marina Dunkel, dressed in the cleanest dress I’d yet seen. Her hair was fashioned in two braids wrapped around her head, soon hidden by the hood of the cloak tied around her shoulders.

  “A respectable lady travels with a companion,” Luther said. “After such a long time of sorority, I thought you might enjoy a bit of companionship.”

  My heart swelled with gratitude. I myself hadn’t even realized the precipice of loneliness on which I teetered.

  Marina offered a curtsy. “Will you have me, miss? I know I’ve been nothing but a hard worker all my life, but I’ve seen all sorts of society coming through the inn. I’ve served their food and changed their beds, sort of disappearing in the shadows, so I know a lot more than I should.”

  “Of course I’ll have you!” To prove my enthusiasm, I stood and moved to the spot directly behind the driver, making a place for her on the board. I offered a quick prayer of contrition for envying the small bag she tossed into the bed, and Luther gave his hand in helping her over the wheel.

  “I’ll visit you shortly, God willing. When I know it’s safe to do so.”

  I clasped Marina’s hand and bowed my head as he prayed for our safe journey, then accepted his blessings. With a halfhearted slap of the reins, Hovart urged the team of workhorses into motion, and Marina and I lurched into each other.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” she said, straightening herself, then bracing her arms on the plank to prevent another such collision.

  “Do not apologize,” I said, giving eye to the pinkest of dawn peeking over the treetops. “I have a feeling this is the smoothest road we’ll experience all day.”

  As it happened, I did not have a full day’s journey to endure. At midmorning, we stopped to refresh the horses, allowing them to graze in an open meadow and drink from one of the streams that fed into the Elbe River. Marina and I took advantage of the stop to get down from the wagon and walk a little, though not so far as to ever be out of Hovart’s sight. For Marina, I knew, this was no extraordinary activity. But for me, to be thus surrounded by God’s creation, I had to stop frequently to close my eyes and allow my ears to take an equal share of the awesome burden. This was a divine silence—no silence at all, really. Leaves that rustled in the breeze. Birdsong. My steps bending the grass.

  We traveled one more hour before stopping to share the dinner sent by Frau Dunkel. Added to my simple meal of biscuits and sausage, Marina had cheese and fruit, with a jar of milk to share around, and sweet herbs to chew after. The horses rested here, too, as did Hovart, recovering from his disappointment that we had no beer.

  Then it was just a little over an hour before the road took a turn, and the outline of a country estate rose up from the horizon.

  “That cannot be,” I said, standing in my seat to get a better view. “Turn around; go back. This must be a mistake.”

  The house was larger than either of the convents I’d called home. Windows stretched three stories high, and I counted twelve spanning from end to end. Two turrets rose above the slanted roof, with six chimneys interspersed between them.

  “Perhaps there’s a cottage?” I mused aloud. “And we’re to be given shelter there?”

  “Just what’s Mr. Luther directed,” Hovart said, unimpressed. “Taking you right up to the front door.”

  Marina looked terrified, and I knew I would have to assume some role of protectiveness. I wondered what could possibly be written in the letter of introduction that would make such a family take me in. Still, I resolved in that moment to be worthy of whatever Luther knew of my breeding and character. I sat up straighter in my borrowed clothes, tucked away any wayward strands of hair, and touched the locket nestled at my throat. We were once such a family, living in such a house, generations before my birth. My blood was every bit as noble as that which coursed through the residents of this estate. More than that, Jesus Christ was the great equalizer of all us sinners.

  “When we arrive,” I said to Marina, already affecting an authoritative lilt to my voice, “I am going to ask that you and I share a room. At the very least one with an antechamber, so that we will not be separated. I’ll explain that I depend on you to see to my needs.”

  “Ja, Fräulein.”

  And bless her for not asking what those needs might be, as I myself didn’t know. Nothing beyond the need of a companion, someone to speak out to in the night. She, however, sat straighter in her seat, her confidence promising an aptitude for fulfilling her duty. The moment our wagon crossed into the drive, a small gathering came out of the front door, presumably ready to greet us.

  “That is Herr Philipp Reichenbach and his wife beside him, Elsa. Those wearing the red with the gold brocade.”

  If she had not identified them by name, I could still have surmised the owners of the estate. Even from this distance, I recognized the fine quality of their clothing and the puffed-up stance that seemed to come with wealth.

  “Our hosts.”

  “The very same. I know for a fact that they are great friends of Herr Luther. They’ve come into the inn and had supper with him.”

  “So they are kind.”

  “They are generous,” Marina said, not confirming my assumption.

  Before I could ask what she knew about the dozen or so people gathered around them—some most likely servants, but others dressed respectably—a man stepped into the midst. Even if he didn’t stand a good head taller than the others, he could not have escaped my attention. Each turn of the wheels—and there were so few left—brought him into sharper focus. Piercing eyes, a strong jaw, well-trimmed beard. All identifiable features, but they came together to introduce an exciting revelation.

  Handsome.

  Every assembled person, including my generous hosts, disappeared like ripples in a pond. I wanted to ask Marina, Who is he? Did he ever come to dine with Luther in Torgau? But by then we were close enough that he might have overheard my question. I allowed myself ten more clomps of the horses’ hooves to take in the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, and all the other attributes of a man’s figure that I had never before
had occasion to consider because I’d never seen one dressed in a fashion so tailored to reveal it.

  The wagon came to a stop, and I felt every eye upon me. His, as much as any other. A boy brought a set of rolling steps to the wagon, sparing me the indignity of climbing over its edge, and Herr Reichenbach himself lifted his hand to escort me to the ground.

  “Katharina von Bora,” he said in a way that blended introduction and announcement. “Welcome to our home, to stay as our guest for as long as you like.” He kissed my hand and offered me over to his wife, a woman with a tall frame and sturdy figure. She kissed both of my cheeks and repeated her husband’s offer of hospitality.

  Thus followed a round of names: Baron and Baroness Achter; Herr Stadtmueller and his wife, Marie; Lucas and Barbara Cranach . . . a host of others. My confusion must have been evident on my face, for at one point Reichenbach laughed and assured me that by the time our visit was over, I would be conversing with all of them as if we had been friends since the time of creation.

  “And this,” he said with a point of finality, “is our neighbor Jerome Baumgartner, lately of Nuremberg.”

  I waited, caught in that pause between the introduction of a man and his spouse. Were there any women left whose names I had not heard? Any who were not wearing a white servant’s cap and collar?

  As if sensing my question, Jerome took my hand, bowed low over it, then looked up, our gazes meeting for the first time in such proximity.

  “I am in awe of your sacrifice and courage.” His voice had a singular quality, almost like a whisper, but one that echoes from a dark corner. And his words—this compliment—rendered me an empty shell.

  “Surely I’ve done nothing to deserve such regard.”

  “Not to hear Luther tell it!” This from Reichenbach, with an accompanying clap of his hands, emitting a sound sharp enough to bring Jerome to stand upright. He’d meant it to be some kind of joke, or at least a humorous observation, and his friends rewarded him with a smattering of laughter.

  “And this,” I said, finally able to perform some act of civility, “is Marina Dunkel. Some of you know her from the Brummbär Inn in Torgau. I hope it was not too presumptuous to ask her to accompany me.”

  “Of course not,” Frau Reichenbach said. “You should have such a young lady to tend to you. Gretl—” she summoned one of the younger servants who had made her way toward the back of the crowd—“show Fräulein von Bora to her room. And the young Marina, too.” Then, back to me, “I’ll send a boy up with your bags.”

  I smoothed my travel-worn, borrowed dress, glad to see Jerome now engaged in conversation with the baron. “I’m afraid I don’t have any bags. Only this.”

  She took the letter of introduction but made no move to open it. “Go up with Gretl all the same, and have a lie-down. We’ve hours left until supper, and by then I shall have found you something suitable.”

  Suitable.

  There’d be no way to enter the house without walking past Jerome, and in the course of those few steps, I couldn’t decide if I desired him to look at me or remain focused on his conversation. I kept my attention on Gretl’s cap and was almost through the door when that voice summoned me.

  “Fräulein?”

  I stopped. Turned. “Yes?”

  “I believe you are quite well suited to our company already.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ONE THOUGHT PREVAILED during my stay with the Reichenbachs. One selfish, sinful thought that brought me to confession with my Savior every night in prayer, and it was this: how envious would my stepmother, Retta, be if she could see me here? The attentions of my hosts extended far beyond any reasonable expectation. Yes, I had food—more sumptuous than my imagination could ever have prepared. Every meal ended with platters of uneaten bread and meat and cheese. Even the water was flavored with fruit. And I had a bed and a roof, both beautiful in their function. The mattress was soft, covered in silk, and wide enough to share with four sisters, had it been wedged into my cell at Marienthrone. The ceiling, like the walls, painted with a pastoral scene, so that every morning I awoke to a view of tranquility matched to that of the gardens outside my window.

  So, in the sense of food and a roof, yes—I had everything one could expect when given shelter. Even Abbess Margarete, should some traveler have the unfortunate chance to take shelter in her home, would provide as much. My days began and ended with the modicum of hospitality, but the hours that stretched between bloated my pride. I spent entire afternoons in the garden, sitting in the shade of one tree or another, wandering the stone paths, peering close at the buds that would someday bathe the grounds in color. How sweet it was to offer up my prayers surrounded by God’s manicured creation.

  I was given all manner of fabric and thread, encouraged to stitch whatever my fancy. In the evenings, musicians played softly in the corner of the dining room, and whether we had four guests or a dozen, the hours after supper were spent dancing. I had my pick of partners—even the married men—each eager to teach me the steps to some of the newest dances coming from Italy. I went to bed every night, my stomach full of food, my lungs depleted from exercise and laughter.

  The small, sinful, prideful part of my spirit claimed that this was the life I’d been meant to have. One of comfortable excess. Had my father’s family been better stewards of their land and assets, I might have grown up with memories such as these. Of sitting at my father’s feet, the way the youngest Reichenbach daughter did, with my eyes closed in sweet sleep. Already in my short stay I’d heard more laughter than in the rest of my twenty-four years combined. More music, too. More sun, more moonlight. More scent.

  In my prayers, I remained faithful to praise God for his providence and to thank him for delivering me to such abundance. In my heart, and voiced into the darkness when I knelt at my bedside each night, I gave thanks for Luther—his obedience to God and his orchestration of my escape. I couldn’t imagine what art of persuasion he had used to secure me a place in a home as fine as this, for surely I’d done nothing to deserve such favor. Hour by hour I availed myself of creature comforts he would be denied. Any hope I had of sacrificial piety had disappeared the moment one of the household servants knocked on my door with hot, herb-scented towels with which to wash the road dust from my face and hands.

  Somehow, though, I knew Luther would be pleased with my pleasure. The way he had entreated me to dance, to drink my beer, to enjoy all the festivities of the wedding party at Brummbär Inn. In just such a way, I knew that part of his plan included my introduction to Jerome Baumgartner.

  Both of these men held precedence in my daily, nightly, sometimes hourly conversations with God Almighty. Luther, as I have said, enfolded in my gratitude. Jerome brought forth from the shadows in my confession.

  I had been a guest of the Reichenbachs for nearly two weeks when it was decided that my portrait should be painted. I say it was decided because, left to my own devices, no such idea would ever have been given life. In my mind, portraits were painted of royalty, saints, and great beauties, none of which applied to me. It happened, though, that my host family had extended an invitation to a budding portraitist recently dismissed from the tutelage of the great Albrecht Dürer. Christoph, who also happened to be a cousin to Elsa Reichenbach, was younger than I, a fact made clear by the way his enthusiasm obscured his lack of talent.

  “The most important thing,” he said as I sat patiently on the stool provided, “is that the canvas be stretched just right across the frame. And treated so that it neither shrinks nor stretches beneath the paint.”

  “That is the most important thing?” I asked, watching him tap, frown, and tap along the edges with a tiny hammer. I’d had occasion to see some of his work hanging in the halls of the servants’ quarters and doubted his efforts would survive past the damp of winter. “Can I go, then? And leave you to this most important task? I promise to return the moment I’m needed.”

  He gave a final tap and looked up in triumph. “No. Sit, straight up ther
e. Tilt your head a bit . . . a bit less. Bring your arm up, now down. Just so.”

  After countless of these minute posing manipulations, I was declared “perfect,” and Christoph disappeared behind the canvas. He intermittently muttered and hummed to himself while he sketched with charcoal, and I took care to remain perfectly still.

  It was morning, not much past the ninth hour, and Christoph had commandeered the breakfast room for his studio, due to its expanse of windows with an eastern exposure. From the corner of my eye I could see the servants still engaged in clearing the dishes and Marina watching from her spot against the wall, making me feel all the more self-conscious of the artist’s attention.

  “Tilt your chin,” Christoph directed. “And look toward the window; bring the light to your face.”

  I obeyed, and was rewarded with the sight of a man, tall in the saddle of a glorious black horse. Jerome, bringing the beast to a stop in the yard, dismounting almost before the animal had all four hooves on the ground. He gave the reins to the boy who’d run out to greet him, handing over his leather gloves and hat as well. Aside from the afternoon of my arrival, I’d only had occasion to see him within the confines of the house—in the great dining hall, in the dining room, the front hall when it was cleared for dancing. Now, the breeze caught his hair and lifted it, and I realized it was much the same length as mine. For the portrait, Christoph had wanted me to don my discarded veil, but I refused. We had instead agreed on a length of gold silk, now fashioned in a ridiculous turban. I had been denied the opportunity to see myself in a looking glass before the sitting, but I knew the fashion was out of character, a fact confirmed by Jerome’s amused reaction when he spied me through the window.

  “Don’t move!” Christoph scolded. “How else am I going to master the technique of dimension and shadow?” But too late.