by Jody Hedlund
Nonetheless, Katharina rebuked herself to remain quiet and to communicate with signs as they’d planned, lest she alert one of the gatekeepers the abbot had charged with keeping the keys to the main gate. Even if she knew what ailed Greta, she could do nothing to help her servant now. She would have to tend Greta’s need later, after they were secure.
Once again her gaze flitted to the shadows that cloaked the cloister yard. A cool breeze lifted the length of her veil. The air slithered underneath and sent chills up the back of her neck. The full moon that marked the coming of Easter hid behind a thin mist of clouds. They would be safer if it stayed there.
Greta wiped her mouth on her sleeve and turned to the window where several others stood, their white wimples gleaming too brightly against the dark building made of unevenly chiseled rocks cut from nearby hillsides. The rough stones lent an austereness that was appropriate for their Cistercian order, which affirmed poverty and banned all luxuries, including statues and colored-glass windows. Even their church was unadorned and indistinguishable from the other buildings in the complex.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Katharina lifted the silent prayer to the Virgin Mother, the Latin words as familiar as breathing. They would need a special measure of divine help if they were to reach the walls without detection.
With quiet urgency she and Greta assisted the others being lowered from the window. All the while Katharina watched the other dormers, waiting for a flicker of candlelight. Faces seemed to lurk in the diamond lattices of each one. But every time she looked closely, she saw nothing.
When everyone was finally down and clustered around her, she motioned them to follow her. With the soft tread she’d perfected over the years, she ducked along the path between the hedgerows and led the women under the brick archway in the wall that opened into the convent’s three main gardens. They kept to the outer edge and passed the latrines positioned near the vegetable beds.
She stayed as far away from the Predigerhaus as they could get but continually scanned the narrow windows of the priests’ house, waiting for a flicker of light to appear behind one of the leaded panes, the signal that the two monks who lived at the convent as confessing fathers had heard them. Abbot Baltazar was still visiting and was staying in the Predigerhaus too. Although he oversaw the Pforta monastery, where the two monks had come from, he was the spiritual supervisor over Marienthron and visited regularly.
Every nerve in Katharina’s body stretched tight as she willed the windows to remain dark. If nothing else alerted the monks to their presence, the pounding of her heart would. It was loud enough to awaken the saints in the graveyard.
She reminded herself again, as she had a hundred times that day whenever fear or doubt had assailed her, that she had no choice but to escape from her empty life. Of late, the desire for marriage and a family had grown so strong she was sure God Himself had put the longing there. Even stronger was the desire to know the truth about her purpose in life. She’d always been told that becoming a nun was the surest way to get to heaven. But Luther’s writings that had been smuggled in spoke of faithful women, even the Virgin Mary, who had served God outside of convent walls. Luther claimed that cloistered life wasn’t necessary for their souls’ salvation. His words had resonated deeply within her, unearthing long-buried questions she’d never dared to ask before. Like some of her sisters of the cloth, she’d begun to ask those questions, unable to deny them any longer.
The chill in the air nipped her cheeks and nose, and the dew on the grass seeped into her shoes, stiffening her toes. Behind her the sisters moved as silently as angels. These sisters who had been her closest companions felt the same desires and pondered the same questions. They too were willing to risk everything to get what they had been denied.
She could not fail them.
When they reached the physic garden, Katharina allowed herself a breath of relief. They crept behind the low hazel fences that supported the raised herb beds, each woman slinking through the maze, following Katharina’s steps. She knew the garden better than anyone. Every new bud carried her touch; every tender plant of cumin and fennel and comfrey and dozens of other herbs had seen her hand.
A sweet waft of blossoming cowslip lingered in the air as if it had come to say good-bye. Who would tend her herbs once she was gone? No one would be able to take care of them the way she had.
She wanted to linger, but she slipped by silently, past the well, until they finally reached the safety of the orchard with its canopy of apple and pear trees. Once they were concealed among the tangled branches with their tiny buds to shield them, Katharina stopped and held up a hand.
She stayed motionless like the others and hardly dared to breathe, straining to hear any indication they’d been noticed. Next to her, Margaret shifted and cracked a twig underfoot. Her cold fingers found Katharina’s, and Margaret squeezed them as if to say, “Almost there.”
Only the grove stood between them and the outer convent wall.
The guard at the rear gate would be breaking his fast with the beer that Merchant Koppe had given him. She hoped he’d be too busy imbibing to hear them. But they would need to be wary of the extra watchmen the abbot had appointed from among the laborers who lived and worked at the convent. Although the abbot had tried to keep their Marienthron community ignorant, they had heard whispered rumors and bits of smuggled news about other monks and nuns who’d left their convents, giving them hope they could do the same. Katharina had no doubt the abbot had increased his vigilance at both his monastery and the abbey, especially now that he’d discovered the Zeschau sisters’ letter.
“This way,” Katharina whispered, giving Margaret’s fingers a return squeeze before letting go to sweep aside a low twig. She led them deeper into the orchard, winding through the trees, thankful most of the winter’s windfall had been raked away, leaving only moist earth and moss and the scent of damp soil. She ducked under limbs and dodged low branches until they reached the thick stone wall that surrounded the cloister.
She peered up at the patchwork of stones, despairing that the wall rose higher than she remembered. A distant bark of a hound echoed in the eerily silent morning. And she crossed her arms to ward off a shiver.
Greta edged past her and pushed aside a tangle of currant vines and brush to reveal a small mound of earth. “Here,” she whispered. “We climb the wall here, my lady.” Greta had managed over the past week to form a hill with brush and dirt. If they worked together, they could scale the wall aided by the small mound. Greta motioned she would go over first and assist with the descent on the other side.
Standing on the mound, Katharina linked hands with Sister Margaret, and they formed a step and hoisted everyone up, first Greta and then the others. She tried not to think about the dangers that awaited them on the other side—wild boars and foxes, thieves, and unfamiliar terrain. Instead she reminded herself of the future—the real lives they would be able to lead, the noble men they would marry, the children they would bear, and the families they would finally have after so many years without.
When they finished helping everyone else, Katharina signed to Margaret. Your turn.
Margaret shook her head and stared into the orchard, her eyes widening to the size of Gulden coins.
Katharina followed her friend’s gaze, and at the rustling and crackling of branches, her body tensed. Holy Mary, Mother of God…Someone was after them. With a burst of panic, she yanked Margaret toward the mound. “Quickly. I shall boost you over. Then you must lead the others north along the river.”
Margaret’s thin face pinched with worry, and she clutched Katharina’s arms. “I can’t leave you.”
Katharina steered her toward the wall. “You must.”
“We won’t make it without you.”
“I shall stall them and give you time.”
“Wait,” came a low, urgent call behind them. “It is I, Sister Ruth.”
Through the tangle of branches and budding leaves came the
stooped figure of a broad-girthed nun. She moved cumbersomely and was dragging something with her.
It was indeed Sister Ruth, the one she’d thought they must leave behind for want of time. Katharina barely had a second of relief before she recognized the burden Sister Ruth brought with her. The Zeschau sisters clung to the nun in their effort to walk, their faces ashen, their bodies trembling.
The two girls were young, hardly more than novices, having taken their vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity just the previous Lenten season. How much had changed in a year so that they were now forsaking those vows.
Katharina reached for Fronika and Margaret for Etta. Sister Ruth, although as strong and wide as any peasant farmer’s wife, relinquished her hold on them and staggered backward, her knees buckling. Katharina slipped her arm around Fronika to hold her up, and her fingers felt the stickiness of blood oozing through the girl’s habit. She reeked of the mold in the cloister prison and the sourness of urine. Her glazed eyes met Katharina’s, reflecting pain and confusion, just as they had when Abbot Baltazar had forced her to kneel in the courtyard, then had bared her back and lashed her mercilessly.
Katharina swallowed her frustration at feeling helpless, just as she had when she’d been required to watch the beating. She could do nothing to assist the Zeschau sisters then. And she could do nothing now, although everything within her demanded that she do so.
“Once we are free,” she murmured against Fronika’s ear, “I shall take good care of you. I promise.”
Under the weight of the girl, Katharina stumbled toward the wall. “How did you get them out without being seen?” she whispered to Sister Ruth.
“I don’t know,” the woman said, her chest heaving.
Dread pricked Katharina. She suspected Sister Ruth had not used enough caution during her trek through the cloister grounds.
“I couldn’t leave without them,” the older sister said, as if reading Katharina’s thoughts. She sagged against the wall and mopped her brow beneath her damp forehead band.
“Everything will be all right,” Margaret whispered, tenderly kissing Etta’s bent head. “If we have compassion on others, surely God will have compassion on us.”
Katharina couldn’t answer. Even if the abbot didn’t know, they all were aware of who had been smuggling the Zeschau sisters the forbidden writings of Martin Luther: Prior Zeschau, their uncle who resided in the Augustinian monastery in nearby Grimma. Most of the time during his visits, he’d only been allowed to speak with his nieces through a lattice window that was too finely meshed to permit the passage of any documents. But on several occasions he’d brought them gifts and had slipped the manuscripts and notes inside.
Of course, the Zeschau sisters had then secretly passed the documents along to others. If not for the two young women, none of them would have dared to dream about leaving the only way of life they’d ever known. But how could they expect their escape to succeed with Fronika and Etta slowing them down?
Greta’s hoarse whispers from the other side of the wall urged Katharina to action. Whether or not they reached safety, Katharina couldn’t abandon these sisters. For better or worse, she would help them. And if the two couldn’t keep up, then she would stay behind with them and send Margaret ahead with the others.
Katharina was the last one over the thick stone wall. When her feet touched the opposite side, relief surged through her. She fell to her knees and signed the cross. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. She bent her head into the long grass until her lips connected with solid earth. The freshness of the recently thawed soil filled her senses with promises.
Her father had taken her away from her home when she’d been only five. For the first time in nineteen years, she was outside cloister walls. She took a deep breath of freedom, but along with the breath came a tremor of fear. An unknown world spread before her with its way of life so foreign to all that she knew.
Greta tapped her shoulder and with a jerk of her arm motioned for her to hurry. Her fair, unblemished face flashed with worry as she peered at the severe stone wall, the only thing that separated them from recapture. “Someone’s awake,” she whispered.
Katharina stood and listened intently. In the distance, from inside the convent, came an urgent shout. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and Greta’s gaze met hers with a gravity that confirmed her worst fears.
Their escape wasn’t a secret any longer. Abbot Baltazar would gather a search party. They would have horses. And they would scour the countryside for them.
How far could she and the others get before they were caught?
Luther stepped out through the arched portal of the Church of Saint George, and the faint streaks of dawn greeted him in the sky above Mansfeld. The soft chatter of other parishioners exiting the Easter service swirled around him.
He drew in a deep breath of the chilled morning air and allowed himself to enjoy a rare moment of peace. Although he hadn’t preached, the message had been one of grace, and the Eucharist had satisfied his hungry soul. For just a few minutes, he’d been able to forget about the constant troubles that were closing in like a net around its prey.
A hand clamped on his shoulder, and he heard the gentle voice of Melanchthon, his traveling companion for this journey. “Are you ready to break your fast?”
The rumbling in Luther’s stomach told him it was past time to end his Lenten fast, although he knew he could go much longer if he wanted to. He’d done so many times during the years he’d spent in the Erfurt monastery. There he had fasted until his strength was depleted. He’d locked himself in his cell and remained there to pray until he’d grown so exhausted that his fellow brethren had to break in the door. Thankfully, those days of fear and judgment and terror over his sin were in the past.
“Let’s go eat,” he said, starting across the narrow street that was already busy at the early hour. The tall two- and three-story buildings were crowded together, their shutters mostly closed against the cold spring morning. The businesses and storefronts hadn’t changed much in the years since he’d been a boy and had roamed the streets and gone to the common school with aspirations to become a lawyer. That urchin never would have guessed that nearly four decades later he’d return as an excommunicated monk.
Melanchthon fell into step next to him, his curly reddish hair poking out from under his low-crowned, broad-brimmed beret.
He was slightly shorter and much thinner than Luther. But what he lacked in physical endowment, he made up for in heart and intelligence.
Melanchthon’s lean face and hollow eyes lent him a scholarly aura that was rare in one so young. At twenty-six Melanchthon had to keep a scruffy goatee in order to prevent others from mistaking him for one of Wittenberg’s students rather than the distinguished professor of Greek language that he was.
“We must be on our way back to Wittenberg before the ringing of Terce,” his friend said. “I told my wife and child I would be back to feast with them this eve.” The worried glimmer in his eye revealed his words for what they were—an excuse.
Luther nodded and went along with him. “We shall get you home to your family as soon as possible, my good friend.”
The truth Melanchthon didn’t mention was that Luther was in grave danger everywhere he went. Although he’d limited his travels since that fateful Diet of Worms two years ago when he’d been branded a heretic by the emperor and pope, he’d decided he couldn’t cower from his enemies forever, even though they still wanted him captured, dead or alive. One year at Wartburg Castle disguised as a knight had been enough hiding for him. Now that he was free of the confines, he’d begun to travel again, much to the chagrin of many of his friends.
Ahead on the street corner, a crippled beggar sat in a pitiful heap of dirty rags and lifted skeletal arms at the many people passing him by. Luther’s fingers went instinctively to the purse hanging inside his scapular. The leather pouch was weightless and empty. As usual.
“I have nothing to giv
e,” he grumbled to Melanchthon.
“You’re like the holy apostles,” Melanchthon responded in the same conciliatory tone as always. “You may not have silver or gold, but you give something much better. Hope.”
Melanchthon’s words were meant to comfort him, but Luther had to stop before the beggar anyway. “Come.” He lifted the man to his feet. “I know where you can get a meal.”
“Doctor Luther!” called several people passing by. “There’s Doctor Luther!”
Melanchthon sighed and Luther knew his friend was worried about the attention he’d drawn to himself. Nevertheless, Melanchthon stood back uncomplaining while Luther shook hands and spoke to those who surrounded him.
“Is it really true that I don’t need to buy an indulgence to free my son from purgatory?” called a stoop-shouldered man clothed in rags almost as filthy as the beggar’s.
“It’s really true,” Luther responded. “The archbishop charges you so he can increase his coffers. But God’s mercy is not for sale. It’s free.”
Only with Melanchthon’s gentle prodding did Luther finally move forward with the beggar still firmly in his grasp. When they entered the inn, Luther settled the man at a corner table but was himself once again surrounded by crowds. As he seated himself next to Melanchthon on a bench, the table rapidly filled with townsmen eager to speak with him.
After quenching his thirst, Luther lifted his tankard, signaling the innkeeper for a refill. In the dimness and haze of hearth smoke, the innkeeper nodded and began to squeeze his way through the swell of bodies around Luther’s table.
“I agree with what everyone is saying,” Luther said to his companions. “There’s no easy solution to the problem. But we can’t let the devil stop us from doing the work of God.”
“What if emptying the cloisters is merely the work of Martin Luther and not of God?” asked one of the Mansfeld provosts sitting opposite him, his fur-trimmed Schaube hanging loosely over his shoulders. The question sparked another round of loud remarks.