He chuckled. “I’ve no authority, so it’s hardly defiance, but yes.”
“In what regard?”
“Well, now you’re tempting me to gossip, Fräulein.”
“Not at all, Herr von Amsdorf. I simply wonder at your scope of influence.”
“In what matters?”
“Matters of safety, for instance. Do you find he is overly bold?”
“In some matters, perhaps. In others, not nearly bold enough.”
Our conversation brought to mind evenings when I danced with this man. For all his broad-shouldered athleticism, he was a gifted and sprightly dancer. Here our feet maintained a slow, steady stroll while our words circled around each other, not quite touching directly.
“In matters of theology he seems dauntless,” I said.
“Yes, and fearless in the face of the Church. But matters of the heart . . .”
We’d come to the corner of the Cranachs’ property, and I stopped, putting myself directly in front of him, lest he seek an escape from both my company and my inevitable query.
“Matters of the heart?”
“Fräulein, you cannot expect me to speak in detail.”
“Only this.” And I searched my mind for the single best question to satisfy my unsettled spirit. “Do you think he truly cared for young Ave?” My question was answered with a hearty guffaw. Loud enough to startle me, and I half-expected it to summon curious neighbors. I pouted in defense. “He said as much, you know.”
“Ah, never trust what the man says about women. The Church still has a grip there, I’d say.”
Snow fell on my lashes, as I’d raised my face to look at him. My eyes stung with the cold, and I knew my nose must be red as a beet, my cheeks as well, yet he loomed composed and handsome as the day I met him. Why could I not love him instead?
“So you think there’s a chance he’ll never marry?”
“I hope not.” He gripped my arm, reassuring. “Meaning, I hope he will marry. To complete his stand against the Church, if for no other reason.”
“But there are other reasons.” I battled the snow to keep my face upturned, wanting von Amsdorf to see me, framed in white, so the next time he and Luther had this conversation, no matter the circumstances, he might recall this image. Then, without another word on the subject, I wished him good night.
CHAPTER 30
THE TREE BROUGHT in for the Cranachs’ Christmas celebration had surely been a Goliath in the midst of its Black Forest home. Seeing the tree was too large for even the grandest hall inside, Barbara consented to have it on display in the courtyard out front, so that all of the residents on the street could enjoy its beauty. On the evening of the winter solstice, all who wished were welcome to come decorate its branches. By the time the stars shone bright, so did the tree below, festooned with white ribbons and glass bulbs that reflected the light of the dozen surrounding torches. Walnuts were wrapped in imitation gold leaf and affixed to the branches, while the lowest boughs hosted small wooden toys, tucked in by the neighborhood children. Cranach gave each one a coin for their contribution, knowing some gave their greatest treasure, and promised they could reclaim their playthings on Christmas morning.
This, my second Christmas outside of the convent, bore little resemblance to the first. Here I was an accepted part of a family, not a tolerated guest. I participated in planning the festivities and gave orders to the staff with authority equal to those with the Cranach name. I cringed to think of the woman I’d been just a year before, her heart tied to a man who had made it perfectly clear he held no real affection for her. This year, not only was the tree taller and more grand, so too were my own hopes for my future. Luther had written me twice in the five weeks he was home with his ailing father. The first, a belated explanation for his absence and an early assurance that while his father was indeed ill, he showed great signs of a full recovery. The second, addressed to me personally, promising that he would be back in Wittenberg in time to celebrate Christmas. By the twenty-first, in fact, to attend the Cranachs’ celebration.
And that he hoped, especially, to see me there.
I read it over and over, counting the words, counting the days, remembering that our friendship began through reading his words. Even a note this brief brought his voice to life and ignited an ache of absence within me.
Gathered with the townsfolk in the courtyard in front of the grand house God had given me as my home, I feigned enthusiasm for all the activity. When a child bolted up against my skirts, I smiled and tousled his hair, all the while scanning the crowd for Luther. The hired minstrels struck their chord, and I hummed along with the hymn, too distracted to remember the lyrics. When I finally saw him, his familiar black cap bobbing above the crowd, it took all of my composure not to elbow my way through our guests in pursuit of a greeting. Instead, I took a deep breath, focused on the expanse of evergreen in front of me, and poured my heart into singing about the Christ child.
Soon, I thought, he’ll be beside me. I imagined his tenor joining my uncertain alto as it had so many times before. And yet, by the time we concluded with amen, a crowd still mingled between us. Which brought me to question—should I approach him? Coyly let him approach me? The prospect of any kind of meeting grew dim, as he seemed determined to keep his head turned in an inconvenient direction, shaking hands and sharing greetings with half a dozen men—notable members of the town council, great supporters of his work and ministry. I nudged myself a bit closer, overstepping the baker’s wife and the seamstress who had recently fitted me for a new Christmas dress.
When a light snow began to fall, the musicians begged to go inside. Cranach’s voice rose above the crowd, shouting a greeting and farewell to all, wishing blessings for the season, and the crowd divided along unspoken but perfectly understood lines: those who would be invited in to continue the festivities, and those who would fellowship out in the snow for a time before returning to their own homes—or to Der Rote Bart for a pint of ale to stave the chill. I, of course, joined the trickle of those headed inside and was pleased to see with a glimpse over my shoulder that Luther would be joining us too. I did not, however, recognize the man who accompanied him. Tall and gaunt, with an untrimmed beard and wearing a coat even shabbier than Luther’s, he appeared at ease with the prospect of going inside. If he were an entire stranger to me, though, surely he must be somewhat of a stranger to the family, and I looked on to see if Luther introduced him to anybody in particular. He did not. Instead, as we neared the massive double front doors, Luther—finally—caught my eye, saying, “Fräulein! At last!”
While he didn’t specifically instruct me to wait, I did, my arms folded, both in a brace against the cold and a growing sense that I needed a barrier. We were on the front steps, ready to walk inside, and still the stranger lurked.
“Herr Doktor.”
At my greeting, the two looked at each other conspiratorially. “Which of us do you suppose she addresses?” Luther said, smiling at some private joke. Then, finally, he stepped back and offered an introduction. “Fräulein von Bora, may I present to you Doctor Kaspar Glatz from our parish at Orlamunde? Kaspar, the intrepid Katharina.”
Glatz studied me as if I were some new puzzle. He did not extend his hand until he had used it to tug at his beard, having come to some decision. “Our mutual friend has misrepresented you.”
“Has he?” I made no attempt to hide my suspicion. “That’s no surprise. It is one of his favorite hobbies.”
Luther alone laughed, then ushered us across the threshold, acting every bit the host and master of the house. He urged Glatz to go into the dining hall and avail himself of all that surely awaited there, all the while holding the crook of my arm. “I apologize for the delay in introduction,” he said, leaning close. “Between my father’s illness and a slight crisis of congregation—” at this he looked meaningfully at Glatz before continuing—“it seemed to be one obstacle after another getting the two of you within speaking distance of each other. But he
re you are.”
“Indeed.” I had no choice but to respond as if I understood the nature of Luther’s statement, as he seemed so jovial. So accomplished.
“And what he said about my misrepresenting you? I have no idea. His form of flattery, I suppose. But rest assured I’ve been nothing but complimentary. That you are lovely of face and quick of wit, and seemingly endless in all that you set out to learn and accomplish. If anything, I have understated your vast appeal, so as not to scare the poor man off. You can be quite intimidating, you know, my Katie.”
Understanding dawned as he spoke, bringing no comfort with it. I reined every muscle in my lovely face to utter stillness, lest the salty burn at the back of my throat betray me. My quick wit, the one that I’d assumed was a match for Luther’s alone, begged to protest. This? This was the suitor about whom he’d hinted all those months ago by the fire? Every adjective he’d ascribed—older, less handsome, learned—applied to both men equally, and a person with no inclination to the working of the heart might find them interchangeable. But Glatz was not Luther. Not my friend, not my confidant, not the voice that had guided me to freedom with Christ, outside the walls of a convent. Just another suitor brought within my grasp. Worse, still, the fact that I, too, deserved so little consideration. Knowing full well the pain I endured at his previous matrimonial effort, Luther showed no hesitation to toss me out again. The entire business just that—a transaction, like a dispute with a butcher over a cut of meat.
Luther prattled on, but I heard nothing as my mind worked to settle which of us had been more blind to the other’s intent. At the moment, the only one of our newly constructed trio with any sight appeared to be Glatz, who reappeared with a cup of wine in one hand, a piece of shortbread in the other, and eyes that roved about the room, taking in every detail. Unfavorably.
“It is a very good wine our host has provided,” he said, marking the first time I’d ever heard such a statement delivered with a scowl. “Too good for such a crowd.”
I rushed to Cranach’s defense, smile frozen on my face. “Isn’t that a hallmark of good hospitality?”
“I meant only that a good many of these people surely qualify as casual acquaintances at best. Myself included in that number. This seems a wine to be shared with those more intimate.”
“I might be able to assure you that Herr Cranach has even finer than this in his cellar. But seeing as you have not thought to bring me—”
“Did I not say?” Luther interrupted, draping a genial arm across my shoulders, its weight unbearable. “A sharp one, she is. But I vouch for the impeccable taste of our host. Allow me to bring you to him and reintroduce you. If I recall, you’ve met on several occasions.”
Luther steered Glatz away, and I felt my body press against my corset in exhalation. Certainly such insufferableness had been on display before. My instincts told me this was not the first glass of wine to be criticized by Herr Doktor Glatz, and it would not be the last. As I stood back and watched the two men in conversation, I marveled that they had anything to talk about at all. Yet Cranach greeted him warmly, as did Barbara, though she sent me a look that only another woman could interpret. She, too, had taken measure of Glatz, and had found him wanting.
By now we had been drawn into the great hall, where the musicians struck up a tune, and the floor cleared for dancing. I stood along the wall, foot tapping, grateful for the servant who came by with warm mulled cider. The mug warmed my hand, and the spices proved pleasant, if for no other reason than the fact that I knew their worth, having purchased and measured them myself. Gazing at the crowd around me, I realized I knew most of them by name. I knew the names of their children and the nature of their businesses. They were worth every poor copper handed over at market and would be served in solid gold cups if such were available.
Luther was soon at my side again. “Did you see the tree? What am I saying, of course you saw it. The whole city can see it.”
“That might be a bit of an exaggeration,” I said, speaking with disciplined politesse. “But it is lovely, isn’t it?”
“Waste of lumber.” Glatz had returned. “And all the baubles on the branches? Wasteful and ostentatious.”
“Do you dance, Herr Doktor?” I determined to find something amiable about the man, for Luther’s sake if nothing else.
“I did when I was younger. It is a sport of youth, I find.”
I pointed to Herr Cranach and Barbara engaged in a turn. “I don’t know that many of the couples would agree.”
“Ah, but they have been dancing together for quite some time, have they not?” This, chimed in from Luther.
“I’ll have you know I have danced with men of all ages,” I said, looking around the room. “Herr von Amsdorf, for example. Is he not here?”
“He is not,” Luther said.
“Pity,” I said, with my best attempt at coquettishness. “He is my favorite of your friends.”
Glatz took no offense at my comment. In fact, I had no evidence that he even heard. He was once again nibbling on a piece of shortbread, clearly annoyed by a young boy who tore through the crowd, brandishing a shiny silver coin. Upon closer study, I realized he was not glaring at the boy, but at our host, who had given it to the lad in return for singing a chorus of the minstrel’s song.
“What?” Luther said, clearly understanding the scene as I did. “Do you not think the boy deserves a reward?”
“It seems an excessive amount for so small a task.”
“Then you should be well pleased to hear Herr Doktor Luther sing,” I said. “He often gets no reward at all.”
“My, you are sharp,” Glatz said, his tone far from complimentary.
“Surprisingly so,” Luther said, prompting my apology.
“You’ve been away too long,” I said in way of explanation. “I’ve been too mired in civility. But I shall temper my words in order to make a good impression on our new friend here.”
“Kaspar is an old friend of mine,” Luther said. “But a new one to you, and I hope the two of you will become well acquainted over the course of the season.”
“The season?”
“I’ll be staying here until after the New Year, at least.” Glatz said. “In a residence at the university.”
“How nice.” I took a sip of my cider.
“We will both be joining you for Christmas supper,” Luther said. “As of yet, that is our only invitation here.”
I looked at him over the brim of my cup. Surely I had no power to issue an invitation to supper—or even an afternoon call. Clearly, though, I was expected to do something of the kind. For once, however, I made it my business not to live up to Luther’s expectation.
CHAPTER 31
TWO ROAST PIGS, their snouts nearly touching, lay in the center of the table, surrounded by mounds of vegetables, baskets piled high with bread, platters of sausages, and bowls of steaming cabbage. I was seated among the guests with Luther nowhere near enough for conversation. To my right, an unresponsive councilman; across from me, his unpleasant wife, leaving Glatz, conveniently at my left, as the sole person with whom to pass the meal.
“All of it, quite delicious,” he said, catching the server’s eye for another helping. “I was invited last year but had the duties of my church to tend to. Rest assured, I’ll not pass up such an opportunity again.”
“They are good, generous people,” I said, holding back the observation that the quality of food must finally meet the quality of the guest.
“So measured by the loyalty and praise of their friends.”
It was the most complimentary statement I’d heard him make about anybody, and I allowed myself to reflect upon him, thinking that perhaps I’d judged him too harshly upon our first meeting. No amount of reconsideration would render him higher than Luther in my esteem. I still felt the sting of my misunderstanding, and glad that I hadn’t made any kind of rash declaration. Upon a second look, I could concede that Glatz was a handsome man—well preserved in his years. An
d yet, he lacked any truly distinctive feature. I imagined myself scanning a crowd, looking for him as I so often found myself looking for Luther, and I realized I might pass my eyes right over him without recognition.
As an experiment, I turned to listen to the rantings of the councilman on my right—something about the rising cost of maintaining the university, and how it should shoulder a greater share of the budget—and found I’d almost completely forgotten what Glatz looked like. Try as I might, I could not conjure his face, to the point where, when I did turn back to him, I was startled by his appearance. Had he been replaced by some other man, one of the many who passed in and out of Cranach’s pharmacy, for example, I’d have been none the wiser.
“Describe him to me,” Ave had said when she and her husband appeared in the hour before supper. Having shared Luther’s latest attempt to marry me off, under the guise of amusement, I found myself devoid of a single adjective to paint a picture of the candidate.
Only two aspects stood clear. First, the unforgivable state of his dress. I, at the Christmas table, wore a new red gown—new in the sense that it had been given to me by Barbara Cranach, then tailored to my figure and embellished with a rich pattern of gold stitching and a thick stripe of velvet.
Glatz, on the other hand, wore the same shabby outfit he’d worn upon arrival to Wittenberg four days ago. Well I understood the constraints of poverty, and even more the eschewing of fashion in light of ministerial pursuits. Luther, to be sure, wore plain clothes taken from a sparse wardrobe. But when society demanded, they were always clean and mended, and tonight he’d taken special pains to match the magnitude of the celebration. His black coat brushed free of lint, his stockings without mends, his sleeves without stains—and all this I remembered from the few minutes’ observation upon his arrival hours before. On the occasion that he leaned forward, bringing his head into my view down the length of the table, I marked how his hair had been newly trimmed, his face shaved clean.
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