by Jody Hedlund
The room had a low-beamed ceiling and dark walls and was lit by several flickering sconces. A cool breeze attempted to make its way through two small windows whose shutters were thrown open to the early morning, but it couldn’t penetrate the air around Luther, which had grown stale and sour.
Irritation nagged him as it did every time he had to discourse with wealthy noblemen who thought they knew best. Why did they think their titles made them better than an average man like himself?
“If emptying the cloisters is merely the work of Martin Luther,” he said above the boisterous voices that filled the inn, “then you won’t have to bear the guilt for dumping two of your daughters in the Wiederstedt convent. Right, Herr Kohler?”
“I’ve sacrificed them to God for a life of service and worship. How could that be wrong?”
“Did you ask your daughters if they wanted to worship in such a way?” Before they could respond, he continued. “God wants worship that is given freely, not forced.” The innkeeper reached the table and pushed a plate of cold salted herring, bread, and cheese before Luther and then refilled his mug. The man wouldn’t expect payment. He never did. Luther knew the extra customers he attracted with his visits were payment enough.
The greasy odor of fried fish made his stomach gurgle. He nodded at Melanchthon next to him, but his friend shook his head, declining the invitation to share the meal.
Melanchthon was content to sit back and let Luther do all the fighting and take the fame and the food. His friend’s kind eyes begrudged him nothing.
Luther wrapped his cold hands around his mug. He couldn’t deny he relished the fight that Melanchthon was all too willing to abdicate.
“The cloistered life is one of privilege for our daughters,” another wealthy burgher said. “Where else will our daughters learn to sing the psalms, read and write, and speak Latin?”
“They’re mostly learning that the church will use them to fulfill the lusts of the priests who oversee their souls.” Luther’s remark brought guffaws as well as loud protests. But he’d seen firsthand enough abuse to know the men protested in vain. They blinded themselves in order to soothe their guilt—guilt for subjecting their daughters to the whim of every priestly overseer while they freed themselves from financial obligation.
He took a long swig of his beer and then spoke over his comrades again. “Everyone knows the abbeys have become nothing more than common brothels. You would do well to risk your goods and your life to get your daughters out of such places.”
“Then we’re back to our same problem,” said Johann Ledener, vicar of the Church of Saint George, who’d preached the Easter message. “What shall we do with the monks and nuns who wish to leave the cloistered life? The monks have no skills. The nuns have no marriageable prospects.”
“As I said, there are no easy solutions.” Luther picked up his knife and stabbed it into his herring. “But I will say this: let the monks learn a trade and let the nuns marry whom they will.”
One of the barons slammed his hand on the table, rattling tankards. Several other men roared oaths.
Luther lifted the piece of fish and twirled it. He knew what he was proposing was radical. The unbreakable boundaries between classes had been in place for centuries. But just as he’d questioned so many other practices, perhaps it was time to question this one as well. “What’s wrong with arranging a marriage for your daughter outside your class? If you can’t afford a dowry that will bring a noble match, then you must consider other godly men even if they are humbler in status.”
Melanchthon nudged him and nodded in the direction of the door.
Luther followed his friend’s gaze to the broad shoulders of his father, who was making his way through the crowd. His stomach cinched as tight as the cincture he wore over his tunic, and his knife slipped from his fingers, the piece of fish untouched. He slid the plate into the hands of one of the young merchants sitting near him. “Eat it. It’s yours.”
He pushed himself off the bench and stood, trying not to hang his head like an errant boy in need of the rod.
“Ach, so here is my son.” The voice of his father carried above the clamor as he elbowed his way past those standing around the table. “I should’ve known he’d eat at the inn instead of going home to break fast with his family.”
“Good day, Father.”
“You didn’t say good-bye to your mother.” His father peered up at him, his brows puckered together above his long nose and his lips pressed into a tight line. His face was washed and free of the soot of the mines, as were his hose and cloak. At such an early hour, however, there was a haggardness in his expression that made his jowls droop.
Born the son of a peasant, Hans Luther had labored hard over the years to better his position in the community. His marriage into the burgher middle class and a relative’s money had afforded him the opportunity to invest in the copper mines. With the endless hours and sweat of his back, his father had eventually leased mines and smelting furnaces. For a time the mines had made him a wealthy man. That had helped pay for Luther’s education to become a lawyer, the education he’d thrown away when he’d entered the monastery.
But the mining industry had fallen on hard times in recent years. Now the output of the smelters wasn’t enough for his father to pay his debts. Hans had grown more disgruntled. And Luther’s visits to Mansfeld had become even less pleasant and filled him with more guilt for all the ways he’d failed his father. Though his father had long ago grudgingly accepted his life being devoted to the church, first as a monk and then as a professor of theology in Wittenberg, Luther had never been able to shake the feeling that he’d let his father down. Just this past weekend during his visit with his parents and extended family, he’d felt his father’s censure, though he doubted his father realized he’d given it.
“Join us, Hans,” said the vicar, making room on the bench next to him. “And tell us your opinion on the matter of monks and nuns leaving their convents.”
For several long moments the conversation buzzed again, and Luther had no choice but to resume his spot at the table, even though his head had begun to pound. He respected his father too much to abandon him, but such conversations usually left him keenly aware of his shortcomings all over again.
“Other monks are getting married. But my son, will he?” Hans Luther said, smacking his lips after a long drink of his beer. “If only he knew the pleasures he is missing.”
The men laughed.
Blood rushed to Luther’s face. “I’m too busy.”
“My son’s always too busy. Too busy to give his old father an heir to pass on the family name.”
“Should a man condemned to death take a wife?” Luther strained to keep his tone respectful. “Once I’m captured, my enemies will burn me at the stake. Why would I want to leave behind a widow and children? The devil only knows what kind of torture my enemies would devise for my family.”
At Luther’s words his father’s face blanched. Hans took a sip from his tankard, his Adam’s apple protruding as he struggled to swallow the drink.
Guilt ripped through Luther, and he bowed his head. He knew his father loved him and only wanted the best for him. But it seemed as though their relationship was forever to be one of disappointment and hurt.
At the clatter of a tankard and a strangled cry, Luther’s head jerked up in time to see the young merchant to whom he’d given his meal fall backward off the bench. The crowd parted to make room for him on the ground as he convulsed, his lips white and his face turning blue from lack of air.
“Get the physician,” someone called.
A man kneeling next to the merchant reached for the piece of fish discarded among the rushes. He sniffed it, tasted it with the tip of his tongue, then flung it back to the floor. “It’s poisoned.”
The pounding in Luther’s head came to an abrupt halt. Silence held him captive as he stared at the lolling gray tongue and bulging eyes of the merchant, each ragged breath possibly his last.
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br /> Luther’s hands began to shake, and he tucked them into his cuffs. “God have mercy.” He looked at the mass of flushed faces, searching each one. The devil was there somewhere.
“Poison?” His father’s voice boomed over the clamor. “Why on God’s green earth would anyone want to poison Herr Muller?”
A small drum began tapping in Luther’s head again, growing louder, beating against his temples until he wanted to groan with the pressure. Death stalked him everywhere he rode, in every town he visited, at every corner he turned. His enemies never ceased plotting his demise.
But this time death had come too close…
It had been only one bite away.
In the faint light of dawn, Katharina examined the unfamiliar landscape, the newly plowed fields, the peasant huts in the distance. It had been years since she’d viewed the world surrounding the convent.
Now she could see that Marienthron was situated in a lush valley, protected by hills on one side and dense forest on the other. She knew the abbey owned most of the land in the surrounding countryside, gained over the decades as payment from noblemen who had placed their daughters at the convent. The abbot commanded compulsory labor from the peasants who lived on it. He ruled over them like a prince and brought in a steady income to support the convent.
“Merchant Koppe’s message instructed us to travel through the forest,” Katharina whispered, glancing across the pasture. Along its edge tall evergreens jutted high against the thinly veiled moon. “We need to follow the river Mulde north of Grimma. He’ll meet us at the crossroads.”
The yells within the cloister yard echoed louder in the crisp air. The other women had plastered themselves against the convent wall and now watched her with frightened eyes. They were like sheep with her as their shepherd. She wasn’t sure how she’d gained that role, but she was determined to lead them as best she could.
“Run.” Katharina’s muscles tensed. “Run as fast as you can for the woods.”
Greta bolted forward, leading the way. With their scapulars and veils flying behind them, the others ran after the maidservant, losing all concern for silence in their haste.
Sister Ruth hoisted one of the Zeschau sisters onto her wide back like a sack of kindling wood. Katharina reached for the other. She was too petite to carry the young woman, but she slipped her arm around the sister and half dragged, half carried her forward. After only two dozen paces, Katharina’s breath came in gasps, and the woods loomed no closer.
“Faster!” Greta called over her shoulder, far ahead of the others.
Like Katharina, the other nuns had never moved beyond the slow, thoughtful walk that behooved the contemplative life of a nun. They couldn’t help but trip over clods of soil, stumble through the tangle of their tunics, and sob in fear as they raced for the cover of the woods.
Under the weight of Fronika Zeschau, Katharina lagged behind. She didn’t want to put Margaret in more danger, but she was grateful when her friend rushed back to her and silently took the other side of the girl, easing Katharina’s burden. Even if Katharina had wanted to admonish Margaret to stay with the others, she couldn’t speak past the burning in her lungs.
Finally the forest swallowed them. Branches slapped and roots snagged. But Greta, in the lead, didn’t slacken her pace. Panic gave them momentum to fight the undergrowth that clawed at their habits and the sharp rocks that bit through their slippers.
The river Mulde served as their guide. Although they could no longer hear the shouts, they knew that Abbot Baltazar was somewhere nearby and that he wouldn’t rest until he tracked them down.
When the forest gave way to a clearing around the cloister pond, they crumpled to the ground, unable to go on without a rest.
Katharina couldn’t feel the chill in the grass past the heat roaring through her blood and the sweat dampening her face and plastering her tunic to her back. Her muscles cramped, and her arms and legs shook. Margaret sprawled next to her, silent of any complaints, but each wheezing breath was a testimony to the exertion. For endless seconds they lay unmoving, their cacophony of labored breaths mingling with the croaking of the recently awakened spring frogs.
Katharina pressed the ache in her side and felt for the pouch she’d hidden under her habit. It contained her only earthly treasure, the one gift she had of value and her only connection to the life that had been snatched from her so long ago.
In the vast sky overhead, the clouds were tinged with the pale pink glow of dawn. Would this finally be the beginning of a new life? Did she dare to believe it was within her grasp?
Nearby branches crackled, then crashed to the ground.
Katharina’s blood froze as several men lurched into the clearing.
Margaret sat up and started to gasp, but Katharina cupped a hand over her friend’s mouth.
The first hints of pale light outlined the hard countenances of the men beneath their straw hats. They wore the coarse linen of a laborer: short belted tunics and low boots secured with laces. Since they were carrying hoes and spades, she guessed they were the peasants who worked the fields surrounding the abbey.
“Well, well,” said one of the men, stepping forward. “What do we have here?”
There was something hard and dangerous in the man’s tone that made Katharina’s limbs tremble. Nevertheless, she stood as gracefully as she could and straightened her shoulders. “You may continue on your way. We are not your concern.”
“Not our concern?” The man chortled as he lumbered closer. “Of course we’re concerned.” With a lunge he grabbed Margaret and jerked her to her feet.
A whimper slipped from Margaret, and her frantic eyes found Katharina’s.
“Unhand her and leave her be,” Katharina said, attempting to keep a quaver from her voice.
“ ‘Leave her be,’ she says.” With a curse the peasant threw Margaret aside and stalked toward Katharina.
She didn’t have time to react before the laborer gripped her arm and jerked her against him so that his breath bathed her face with the stench of strong beer. “You telling me what to do?”
“We are nuns, the brides of Christ. It’s your God-given duty to protect and honor us.”
“Did you hear that, boys?” The man tossed his friends a gap-toothed grin. “It’s our duty to protect these rich, thieving church whores.”
The other laborers hooted with laughter and crept nearer, forming a half circle around the nuns, who had clustered into a shivering huddle.
Church whores. Katharina’s insides twisted at the insult—twisted because people thought of them that way and twisted because she knew there was some truth to the accusation. As much as she wanted to ignore the whispers of indiscretions, there had been too many stories along with unexplained disappearances of sisters and workers. None of her closest companions spoke of such abuse happening to them, but she was sure more of them had experienced the pain than had admitted to it.
She wouldn’t let her friends experience abuse. Not here. Not this way.
“Be on your way,” Katharina commanded, hoping her voice sounded more confident than she felt. She cast a frantic glance to the thick brush and woods beyond the pond. Could she find a way to escape these men, or were the women destined to be ravaged and abused on the doorstep of the convent?
“You won’t be going anywhere.” The peasant’s fingers groped her habit, sinking into her soft flesh and sending revulsion to the pit of her stomach. “Not until we have a little fun with you.”
He yanked on her scapular, ripping it free of her habit with a sickening tear. The rending of linen incited the other men, and in an instant they landed upon her helpless sisters. Their laughter mingled with the women’s cries.
Panic twisted Katharina as tightly as flax fibers on a spindle. She pummeled her captor. The horrified calls of the others spurred her—she had to rescue her weaker sisters. “Take me, but let the others go!”
The peasant’s knuckles slammed into the side of Katharina’s face. Excruciating p
ain forced her to her knees. Blackness swirled in front of her. Before she could move, the peasant forced her backward so that her head slammed against the ground.
“For the sake of His sorrowful passion,” she screamed, “have mercy on us and on the whole world.” A familiar powerlessness blanketed her. She’d been at the mercy of others her whole life, and here she was once again without the ability to control her own fate.
“Stop!” A voice rang through the chaos. A tall man with a pike strode forward out of the brush and crossed through the long-dried grass, his face a mask of fury. He swung his pike at the peasant holding Greta with such force that it hit the man’s arm with a crunch. The peasant yelped and fell away.
“Get off the women!” the newcomer shouted.
“Why do you care?” The man holding Katharina peered at the tall man but didn’t seem surprised to see him. She seized the moment of hesitation and clawed her captor’s face. He cried out and reared back.
She scrambled away from him, and her fingers closed around his discarded hoe. Grasping it, she heaved herself up. With a fury born of desperation, she lunged at the other men, beating them away from the sisters.
Howling and cursing, the laborers backed to the edge of the clearing. Katharina gasped for breath and turned toward the tall man, who was holding Greta against his body and was smothering her lips with his.
“Release her at once!” Katharina demanded, lifting the hoe and aiming it at the man’s head. Her breath came in gasps.
Greta broke away from the kiss. “Don’t hurt him, my lady,” she said, turning and shielding the man with her arms. Her wimple had fallen off so that her short-cropped hair was free of constraint. The soft, fair waves fell around her face, adding a fullness that made the girl even prettier.
“This is Thomas, Merchant Koppe’s servant,” Greta said, glancing over her shoulder with tenderness. The man was muscular and had chiseled features that were rugged and handsome for a commoner. Thomas stroked Greta’s cheek in response.