The Holy Ghost lives within you.
The flames touched a dry pocket in the wood, sending a loud pop and shooting of sparks as Luther’s words and my thoughts found each other in perfect unison.
“Imagine his fire,” Luther said, somewhat amused at the timing, “warming your body through your very blood. He may not give you a second blanket, but his strength can double the weight of the one you lay under.”
Only ask it, and it will be given.
Beyond my power, I’d spoken this last line aloud, garnering Luther’s full attention.
“Your father is a wise man,” Cranach said, his face buried in his cup, oblivious to the realization coming to life before him.
Luther knew, too. He must. He regarded me in that way he had when puzzling, and I well knew the pieces he was fitting together. Calculating the dates. A child at Brehna. How many years ago? Sixteen? Seventeen? A child with a stepmother. A quick wit and brazen tongue. Defiant of the rules, and—
“So,” he said, with a tone acknowledging we’d come to the conclusion together, “we met long ago, did we, Katie?”
“It would seem.”
“And did you follow my father’s advice?”
“Many nights.”
“But not tonight. For tonight, we shall be warm in our beds, thanks to the kindness, hospitality, and generosity of our fine hosts, shall we not?”
Cranach, for his part, didn’t seem to care a whit about our secret conversation. Either that or he’d been specifically schooled by Barbara to give wide berth to any sign of tenderness between Luther and me. He stood, bade good night to both of us, and left the room, muttering something about seeking the warmth of his own wife for his own bed.
No sooner did he leave than Luther followed suit. He drained his cup and stood, stretching, like a great, sleepy bear. He shouted a farewell to the house in general before bending low to me, placing a chaste kiss upon my cheek. Withdrawing, he whispered, “Need I warn your hosts about your penchant for sneaking biscuits into bed?”
I shivered, not only at the memory of my long-ago confession, but at the tickling of his breath upon my nape.
“Never fear. I’ve put away many childish things.” I looked up to find him still close—close enough that I could kiss him, with very little effort on my part. Not only because of his physical proximity, but because every word of our conversation invited my advance. Or my acquiescence. I engaged in neither, opting instead to lift my glass for a final, bracing sip.
“Speaking of the wisdom of fathers,” Luther said, having taken a step back, “didn’t yours once say that a life of drinking wine led to a life of shedding tears? There was a time, my Kate, when you wouldn’t touch a drop.”
“There was a time, Herr Luther, when I had so many other reasons to shed tears. Now, I believe, I’d be hard-pressed to find a single one.”
“You are happy, then?”
“I am.”
He smiled, satisfied. It was what he had promised me, after all.
CHAPTER 29
I DON’T KNOW why I expected to see him the next day. Perhaps because I spent my night tossing on my feather mattress, wondering if he was warm. The year before, when he’d stayed on as a guest at the Reichenbachs’, I’d come to the breakfast table late, having learned his habit to spend the earliest hours in prayer and study. By then I had my own copy of his translated New Testament, and I read it faithfully, marveling at the intertwining of the three: the ancient texts, my own language, and Luther’s own hand penning the phrases. On this morning, I opened my testament and ran my hand along its page. To think that, during my final years at Marienthrone, existing from one scrap of paper to the next, he had the luxury of all this knowledge. How could I help but marvel at a God who would join our lives together?
I tilted the Scripture toward the morning light but could not bring my eyes to focus. Rather, I could not bring my mind to focus. Every phrase dissolved into a vision of Luther’s profile against the firelight. The words of our Savior melted into a single command: Only ask and it shall be given.
Could it be that I’d never asked? All those years ago, when the confessor and the little girl spoke for the first time, that had been the answer to a multitude of need. Hunger, cold, loss. How faithful God had been to provide, to meet my needs and fill my life with people who would love me in a way my own family never would. He took me from my cruel brothers and surrounded me with loving sisters—Therese and Girt closest of all. Sister Elisabeth and Sister Gerda were mothers to me, God himself my father. These he gave me, without my asking.
I hadn’t asked for Jerome, either. I never prayed for him to love me—I simply assumed he did, and mourned when he did not.
I never prayed for Luther, either. I never asked for him to love me in the way a man loves a woman. I never expected him to be anything more than a voice on the other side of silence.
God gave, without my asking. The same God who kept me safe from a stepmother’s punishing spoon brought me to a home where I could live and learn at the guiding hands of a caring woman. Yes, I’d known hunger, but never starvation, and after so many months in this home, my stomach ached from overindulgence more than it ever had from emptiness. My room was often too warm in winter, the fire blazing too hot for one person. My hands had grown softer for lack of labor, my mind sharper with unfettered access to books of all subjects, my soul surrounded by Scripture—open to my own discovery. Beautiful art graced every wall, fine furnishings in every room. My ears rang with laughter and music and conversation.
All of this, because of Luther.
I wanted to tell him that—to share with him my revelation of the morning. To confess, maybe, as I had all those years ago, though I couldn’t pinpoint the sin. A passive faith, perhaps, trusting God in hindsight. Allowing Luther to be the agent of God’s gifts. Only now, with full clarity, did I see the need to make my desire known to God.
I want a husband, Lord. Not a suitor, not a lover. A man and a home and children. I want . . .
I dared not voice it, not even in the silent space between my mind and my heart. Perhaps such a prayer deserved more than silence.
I closed the precious tome and set it in my lap, my hands folded upon it. Eyes open, staring at the ring glinting gold on my finger, I spoke.
“Martin.”
I could articulate no more.
He—Luther—was not at the Cranachs’ table for breakfast that morning, and I chided myself for even imagining the possibility. Neither was he there for supper that night. Nor the next. Nor the next. I did not remark upon his absence, having no reason other than the expectations built in my own mind. Still, Barbara noticed my distraction, my startled reaction to each summons to the front door, my suspicious inquiries about the night’s supper menu.
“Do you think the goose is large enough? Or shall I go to the market for another?”
“Shall I make dumplings for the stew?”
“Perhaps another bottle of wine from the cellar?”
If she suspected my intent, she said nothing to force a confession. She indulged my ruse, informing me that, no, Luther was not joining us tonight, without ever speaking his name.
Four days passed when the art-covered walls and the comfortable roaring fires and the plush furnishings proved every bit as prisonlike as the sparse, cold surroundings of the convent. I donned my warmest cloak and boots and declared I must step out for a breath of fresh air.
“So late?” Barbara asked, looking up from the ledger she was balancing.
“It’s not quite five o’clock.”
“That means less than an hour until dark. Wait a moment, and I’ll have one of the servants go with you.”
“I’ll be fine. Just to the pharmacy and back, to see if I can get a tincture. I feel a headache coming on.” Which was true—the nascent pain sprouted right behind my eyes. “As much, I think, from the dry air in the house. The walk will probably prove just as fine a remedy as anything.”
“Well, if you see my hus
band at the pharmacy, tell him to close up and come home. And if you don’t see him there, pop your head into Der Rote Bart and deliver the same message.”
Der Rote Bart was a small tavern frequented by Luther and Cranach and their friends. I promised to send Cranach home from whatever the venue, and turned to leave.
“Oh, and Katharina?”
I paused at the door.
“If you run into Martin, send our regards, and tell him we miss him at our table.”
Outside, the snow fell in thick, soft flakes, and I turned my face up to it, the way I knew I would do were he at my side. The Cranachs’ house was the grandest on the street—the grandest in the city—but before long I was surrounded by much smaller, humbler homes. Here children raced by, enjoying one last run before being called in to supper. Contrarily, I slowed my pace, taking in the smells coming from the kitchens, listening to the sounds of life: the jangle of bells on a harness, far-off chimes ringing the hour. I greeted my neighbors—some by name, others by smile.
I walked until my steps fell not on the hard-packed dirt, but the uneven cobblestones that ran the center of the streets leading into Market Square. The snow fell harder, and my legs felt the incline, more pronounced with the gathering slickness on the ground. I passed Cranach’s pharmacy on the corner and, noticing the windows were dark, took no action to see if Cranach was within. As I suspected, the fresh air and exercise cleared my head as much as any powder might have done.
The booths of Market Square were empty too. Butchers and farmers and others long packed up and home. I could no longer deny even to myself my true destination. To Stadtkirche at the top of Castle Square, where, on the intervening lawn, a line of girls made a solemn trek from the chapel to the ramshackle building that was their school. I imagined a frugal supper awaiting, followed by an evening of reading Scripture and then sleep on narrow, inadequate beds. They wore red cloaks pulled full around their faces, but the last little girl happened to turn, and I saw brown-button eyes looking straight at me. I lifted my hand—just bent at the elbow—and offered an imperceptible wave, which she returned in kind. Then I gave a cautionary gesture, warning her to turn her attention to the path at hand, lest she—or I—be found out by the mistress setting a strident pace at the front of the line.
She obeyed.
More than once it had been brought to my attention that I could become an instructress at this school. I was adequately educated, and a capable teacher. Always the suggestion came with the unspoken caveat of if you do not marry . . . And so, politely, I’d hummed something agreeable and assured all that my love of children would, indeed, make this an ideal situation. But looking at the column of marching red robes struck a core of familiar sadness. I wanted to teach, yes. My own children, in my own home. Each passing day, month, year, took that dream further and further from my grasp.
Yet, as the grand doors of the Castle Church loomed large in front of me, I forced myself to remember that no dream, if planted in the heart of one called to God’s purpose and spoken in prayer with faithful assurance, ever remained unfulfilled.
It was a midweek evening, no call for the church to be occupied, having been so recently emptied of the girls and boys from the neighboring schools. The windows glowed pale, the doors were shut tight, but still I ascended the steps. I knew the doors were open to those seeking sanctuary, and though I could claim no peril, I saw myself no less deserving, if nothing else to escape the snow that now fell in a solid, swirling curtain. My hand on the latch, I noticed—as I did each time I stood here—the nail marks on the door. Once again I marveled at the man who would take such an action. Moreover, I wondered how I could ever be worthy of his affections. And with the past four days of silence, I couldn’t help but doubt them.
What was I thinking? What would I say? Suppose I opened the door, walked in, and found Luther behind his pulpit, scribbling sermon notes. Or more likely, engaged with a congregant, their heads tipped in earnest discourse. And I would bluster in, sodden with snow, to say . . . what?
Where have you been these four days?
No. While I still had pride intact, I dropped my grip of the latch and turned my back to the door. My feet had left a path leading up, which I obscured on my way down, and once to the street, I took a sharp left toward Der Rote Bart, legitimizing my presence in the street, alone, at this hour. Just here to fetch the master at the mistress’s request.
I could tell from looking through the window that the tavern was crowded, and not surprisingly, given the weather. Inside, I knew university students would be packed like straw in a ticking, steins raised in camaraderie, voices raised in song. It was a respectable establishment, one I’d been in just twice before—once with Herr and Barbara Cranach, and once with Luther, when he invited us all to raise a glass in honor of his birthday.
So dense was the gathering of patrons, I could barely wedge the door open, and I had to squeeze myself through. While the bulkiness of my cloak made for a tighter fit, I was grateful for the garment to protect the brocade stitching on my overskirt. Inside, the air was steamy and warm, the atmosphere amiable. Nobody offered me a second glance, allowing anonymity as I searched the crowd for a familiar face. Cranach, primarily, as was my task, but I hoped for him to be sharing a drink with an old, dear friend.
I wedged between shoulders and dodged elbows and kept my eyes trained from face to face.
Then, a familiar voice in my ear.
“Fräulein?” Louder, “Fräulein von Bora!”
Behind me, Nikolaus von Amsdorf, by far the most distinguished-looking gentleman in the establishment—a fact that held true no matter where he happened to be. Rarely had I seen him without Luther nearby, so once I’d offered suitable greeting, I craned my neck, looking for a second familiar face.
von Amsdorf, too, appeared to be searching for my escort. “What brings you here?”
“I’m here to fetch Herr Cranach. Is he about?”
“Frau Cranach sent you out in this weather?” The dear man looked genuinely concerned, as if ready to bring the woman to task on my behalf.
I leapt to her defense. “Not at all. I love the first real snow and wanted to walk out in it. She only asked if I would stop by.”
“Did she?”
von Amsdorf’s suspicion was infectious, and my own doubts surfaced. Never would she risk her husband’s pride by having a guest beckon him home—not when he might be thrice in his cups with his peers. She, like me, gifted with a woman’s aptitude for ruse, intended me to follow through just as I had. A convenient search for Luther.
“I don’t see him,” I said, rather than perpetuate the falsehood. “So I’ll be on my way.” I didn’t see Luther, either.
“It’s cold out. Would you not like something bracing before heading back?”
“No, thank you, Herr von Amsdorf. I would not want to be late for supper.”
“Wait, then. Let me settle up and I’ll walk you back. It’s growing dark.”
“Really, there’s no need—”
“Don’t worry.” He leaned close. “I won’t try to wrangle an invitation to supper. I have plans to dine with a friend.”
“With Luther?” The question flew out before I could stop myself.
He reared back, surprised. “Did he not tell you?”
The closeness and the heat of the room began to take their toll, and my throat went dry. Why had I refused a glass of wine? “He’s said nothing of import. Is he out of town?”
von Amsdorf raised a finger. “Wait here.” En route to a table in a back corner of the room, he caught the attention of a serving girl and handed her a generous stack of coins taken from a leather pouch, indicating it was to pay for not only his drink, but those of his tablemates as well. I recognized a few by face, though not by name, and I returned their amiable greeting with a ladylike acknowledgment.
“Shall we?” And von Amsdorf touched his hand to my back in escort.
Outside, the weather had turned into a true winter’s night, and I
accepted the arm offered to me as we began the walk back to the Cranachs’ home.
“It’s a heavy snowfall for so early in the season,” von Amsdorf said, and I agreed.
“Has Luther flown away to escape it?” I attempted a shot of levity. “To Spain, perhaps, to tackle new Catholics in a more temperate climate?”
“Nothing quite so far, nor so dramatic. Only to visit his parents. He got word two days ago that his father had taken ill, and left straightaway. I’m surprised he didn’t leave a message, with Cranach at the very least.”
“Why?” My interest piqued. “Why would he tell the Cranachs?”
“Because it’s growing cold and Cranach’s house is warm, their table full, and the company pleasant.”
I exhaled a slow breath of relief, knowing I should inquire about the specifics of his father’s health, but not wanting to pass up the opportunity to ferret out some detail of Martin’s idea of pleasant company at the Cranach house. “I’m sure Luther realized our paths would cross at some point and you’d tell me. Rather, us. At the house. Besides, he owes us no account of his time.”
“Still, it’s rude. I’ll tell him so at the first opportunity. Bring him to task.”
“Do you really have that kind of an influence on his behavior?”
“I’ve known Luther as long as I’ve known anyone, outside my own family. I can’t imagine what I couldn’t safely relay.”
His words extended like an invitation. The snow fell between us, almost thick enough to act as a confessor’s screen.
“Would it be safe to say that Luther sees you as an equal confidant?”
“I’d like to say yes, but I’m not sure I hold that place. Luther confides in the Lord and seeks his counsel above all others. I don’t know that any mere mortal could convince him to do—or not to do—anything he didn’t perceive to be directed of God.”
“So you can speak your opinion, but he can defy you?”
Loving Luther Page 28