by Jody Hedlund
“As you can see, we have finally arrived. By no small miracle, mind you.” Koppe approached Luther and pumped his hand. The merchant’s jerkin was stylishly slashed to reveal the leather doublet underneath. Bright lining bulged out of the splits in his plunder pants. His ostentatious attire provided the only color in the room.
Luther rapidly counted each head and swallowed his astonishment. “Are there nine?”
“We started with twelve. But three, including my own niece, I’ve already delivered to the safety of their families, who are willing to take them.”
Luther nodded. He would write letters and pray that more of the fathers would heed his advice to take back their daughters. For what would he do with nine runaway nuns? Two or three he could help. But nine? How would he find homes and husbands for all of them?
One young girl swayed, clearly tired or injured, and a petite nun next to her slid her arm around the girl’s waist, bracing her. The petite nun murmured a word of encouragement before turning startling blue eyes wide with expectation upon him.
Compassion stirred deep inside. He would do all he could to help them. He was responsible for their predicament. He’d been the one to encourage them to leave. Had he not instructed all priests, monks, and nuns to forsake their vows? They’d only done what he’d preached.
The church had forced them to deny the God-created desires and dreams woven into the very fabric of their bodies. Luther had come to the conclusion—contrary to the teaching of the church that praised a monastic life—that God had not made many for singleness. The nature and functions of their bodies testified to the naturalness of marriage, as did Scripture itself.
“I cannot deny I’m relieved it’s over,” said the merchant, mopping his brow and giving off a sour odor, a testimony to the amount he’d recently perspired. “There was more than one occasion when I feared I would not get my first taste of pork since before Lent.”
“I commend you, Koppe.” Luther turned to his friend. “You’ve done a new work that will be remembered by the country and the people.”
“Now, Doctor Luther, we both know if word of my involvement in this escapade spreads, this could be very bad for my business.”
“Certainly some will scream and consider it a great detriment, but others who are on God’s side will praise it as being of great benefit.”
“Let’s hope our wise Elector Frederick will see it as a benefit.”
Luther shrugged. Their ruler was never predictable or easy to understand. So far he’d tolerated the rebellion, mainly because Luther had brought notoriety to his Wittenberg University—not to mention more students and thus more money. If the elector handed Luther over to the emperor and the pope, the elector’s dreams of having a great university would come to naught. Duke George’s rival Leipzig University would be superior.
“We’ll leave the consequences of our crimes in God’s hands, Koppe.” Luther clamped a hand on the man’s thick shoulder. “In the meantime the least I can do is offer you and your companions a meal.”
“We’ve traveled hard all day and would be grateful.”
Luther grinned. “I can offer. But you must do the providing.”
Koppe’s brows shot up, and he rubbed a hand over his beard.
“We have nothing,” Luther admitted, “except for the new provisions you have brought us.”
“What happened to the stores I gave you last time?”
“He gives to any poor soul who comes to the door,” Wolfgang grumbled. “And now apparently he’s planning to shelter them as well.”
“If Koppe has dared to risk his life for these women who have been wronged,” Luther said, “then I can do no less myself, especially if Koppe will bless us with the provisions we need.”
Luther waited calmly in the silence that followed. How long would it take for Koppe to give in this time? His friend was generous, although perhaps not as openhanded as he himself. But Luther could always count on Koppe for aid.
“Very well,” said Koppe. “I was planning to sell my load tomorrow at market. But I’ll give it to you instead.”
“We’re grateful for your generosity.”
“Mind you, as long as I get a mug or two of Brother Gabriel’s Obstwasser.”
Luther nodded at the stooped, frail form of Brother Gabriel in the gloom of the hallway as silent and unobtrusive as always. “Obstwasser we have.”
As Koppe gave instructions for his men to unload the wagons, Luther took a deep breath and turned to face the nuns. In the years since he’d taken his vows, he’d had almost no contact with women and even fewer occasions to converse with them. He’d never been good at talking with the fairer sex. In fact, he had memories of making a donkey of himself, especially during his law school days. But the compassion that swelled again prodded him to issue some words of comfort.
“My sisters in Christ,” he began, “welcome to Wittenberg and to your freedom.”
A few heads lifted with slight traces of smiles. Although the petite nun with the blue eyes remained serious, she boldly met his gaze again from where she was settling the lay sister on a bench.
“It took great courage to break free of the chains that have held you in bondage,” he said. “And although you’re safe for the present behind the walls of the Black Cloister, I don’t know what will happen once word of your presence here spreads.” They were all in grave danger and would likely face excommunication and persecution. But he wouldn’t scare them with that news yet.
“Dear sisters, I promise to do my best to help each of you. If your families are unable or unwilling to receive you back, then I’ll attempt to find you suitable husbands or homes of employ.”
More of them smiled.
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at relating to women after all. There was no sense in frightening them with the facts that most of the former monks had already married and that very few noblemen would marry them without a dowry.
“In the meantime you’ll stay here. And while we have meager supplies, whatever we have is yours.”
“Forgive me, Doctor Luther.” The blue-eyed nun stepped forward. The light from the wall sconce illuminated a purplish-green bruise coloring one of her cheeks. In spite of the mar, she had a pretty, heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and an elegant nose. “I cannot help but question the wisdom of housing a group of nuns in a place belonging to men. Would it not be scandalous, even sinful?”
Wolfgang cleared his throat as though to agree.
The nun’s gaze was unrelenting and made Luther squirm like a schoolboy. At least he wanted to convince himself that it was her intensity and not her loveliness that made him squirm.
“I’m the only one left here at the monastery, along with old Brother Gabriel and my manservant, Wolfgang.” He nodded first at the wrinkled old monk and then at his dark-haired manservant, who hovered nearby with the ferocity of a mother bear. “We’ll sleep in the loft in the barn while you’re here.”
She nodded. “Very well.”
Just “very well”? No “thank you”? Perhaps he should have told her that she and her friends could sleep in the barn. He swallowed the words.
“Since you’re willing to share whatever you have,” she continued, “then I must ask for a few specific medicinal herbs.”
Her tone pricked him.
“I must have comfrey—a fresh cutting if possible. And also herb Robert—the whole plant minus the root. And if not the whole plant, then I would have dried yarrow instead.”
Luther stared at her. Even if her lips had a pleasant curve, the set of her mouth and chin had the bearing of aristocracy.
“Further, I shall need a small amount of honey and chamomile.”
Did she think that she was better than he was, that she could come into his home and order him around? He straightened to his full height and puffed his chest. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated, then lifted her chin. “Katharina von Bora.”
“Ah, vo
n Bora. A knight’s daughter?”
She nodded without casting down her glance as the others had done.
“A noble knight,” he continued, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. He might not fight with his fists, but he’d perfected his words. He could easily show this titled woman that she was no match for him.
“No doubt,” he continued caustically, “your knightly father could no longer collect his rents or pay his debts. To ease the burden of his failing wealth, he dumped his young daughter into the nearest convent. So impoverished was he that his only choice was to cut off his flesh and blood rather than worry about the burden of a dowry.”
The nun’s eyes flickered for an instant, the only acknowledgment of the painful truth of his words.
“So…is there anything else you’ll need?” he asked. “I am, after all, your humble servant.” He knew he was being a donkey again, but he had little patience for the upper classes putting on airs.
Her gaze had hardened and shifted to Koppe’s servant, who had returned to the room, his arms laden with supplies. “As a matter of fact, most honorable and revered Doctor Luther, I do need one more thing.”
His ire continued to rise at this young woman’s audacity. “And what might that be?”
“We’re in need of a wedding ceremony as soon as one can be arranged. Tonight if possible.”
The parlor grew silent.
“Wedding ceremony?” Luther glanced at the others, but their unwillingness to meet his gaze was in stark contrast to the boldness of their leader. “For whom?”
“For my servant, Greta.” She nodded to the young lay sister she’d situated on the bench. The girl’s wimple was askew, and her hair hung loose. At the sudden attention, her eyes filled with fear, and she tried to melt against the wall. “Greta has been compromised. And as her caretaker, I insist that she marry with all haste since her body swells with child.”
Greta groaned and buried her face in her hands.
“And you must do your God-honoring duty, Thomas.” Sister Katharina spun to speak to Merchant Koppe’s servant. “You must marry her without delay.”
First surprise, then concern flitted across Thomas’s face. He dropped the bundles he’d been carrying and stalked across the room toward the maidservant. He lowered himself to one knee in front of her and took her hands in his.
Sister Katharina faced Luther again. “It’s my responsibility to see that Greta is as well cared for now as she was at Marienthron. Therefore I insist Thomas marry her.”
Luther wasn’t surprised when Koppe’s young servant cast Sister Katharina a glance dark with hatred—the kind he’d noticed lately in thin peasant faces when he’d gone preaching, one that warned of the growing unrest among the lower class.
“What is this?” Koppe asked, stepping through the front door, bringing a gust of cool air with him. “Has Thomas fornicated with one of the sisters? Will I need to castrate him after all?”
“A marriage ceremony would suffice, Merchant Koppe,” Sister Katharina said. “Thomas must accept responsibility for his actions.”
Thomas stood, his body as straight as a lance. “I’ll gladly marry Greta. I’ll even take responsibility for raising her child, but I’m not the father.”
“We’ve all witnessed your passion with my servant.” Sister Katharina’s voice was hard. “How can you expect us to believe your claim?”
Thomas turned again to the servant girl and murmured something to her. But she refused to look at him or answer him.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Koppe asked, striding into the middle of the room, his expression severe. “Have you defiled this girl or not?”
Thomas quietly pleaded with the girl, ignoring his master.
“I ought to whip you for insubordination.” Koppe’s doublet strained at the buttons, and a ruddy stain crept into his cheeks.
“Tell me who,” Thomas demanded louder, trying to make the servant girl look at him. “Was it him?”
With tears streaking her cheeks, Greta pushed Thomas away and threw him off balance. Before he could react, she scrambled toward the door and ran outside into the darkness of the coming night.
“I’ve put up with your surliness long enough,” Koppe said, crossing to his servant and grabbing his arm. “Maybe I should give your job to someone more worthy.”
“Very well. Take my job away. I don’t want it anymore.” Thomas jerked away from Koppe and turned to follow Greta. His gaze narrowed on Sister Katharina. “And you won’t have to concern yourself with Greta much longer.” He spat the words. “I plan to take good care of her myself. And maybe for once she’ll finally be safe.”
Luther saw confusion play across the nun’s face as she watched Thomas stride outside. “Will you still need a wedding ceremony tonight, Sister Katharina?”
Her gaze swung to his. For a brief moment he could see the frightened little girl once abandoned and forgotten. Sorrow beckoned him to rescue her, to reach out to her, to comfort her. Her vulnerability stirred a place deep inside him, evoking a strange urge to cross the room and touch her cheek, to feel its smoothness.
“We shall postpone the wedding ceremony,” she said, a mist in her eyes. “Perhaps on the morrow. For now we would like you to take us to our rooms.”
It wasn’t often someone could render him speechless, but her command did just that. He hadn’t expected the years in the abbey to diminish her aristocracy. Although the cloistered life might be austere, most of the women still retained the protection and prestige afforded to their class, and they spent their days in relative ease and comfort. However, he hadn’t anticipated quite so much forthrightness or entitlement from one of them, and it rankled.
“And you may let us know when your servants have a meal ready for us.”
“Do you think I’m running an inn and I’m the innkeeper?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Let me make something clear. This is no inn. And although I’m a humble servant of Christ, I’m not your servant.”
Her blue eyes frosted like the water in his wash basin most spring mornings.
“Unlike the convent you just left,” Luther continued, “here you’ll no longer have anyone to cook your meals, mend your garments, or scrub your rooms. You may still consider yourself among the elite and privileged of society, but you’d do well to remember that the rats in the cellar possess more riches than you. And due to your advanced age, I would likely have greater success in marrying off my old horse.”
“Doctor Luther,” she replied, cocking her head at the others, “you’d do well to refrain from discouraging these women.”
He took in the weary lines of their faces, their eyes wide at the implication of his words, and his heart sank.
How was it possible that with just one sentence Sister Katharina could reduce him, the doctor of theology, the great preacher, the learned professor, to an errant boy in need of a thrashing? How could she make him want to hang his head in shame and at the same time fill him with such annoyance that he neglected to restrain his tongue?
He would have to pray that this woman’s family would take her back, or God pity the man who would end up as her husband.
“He’s not what I expected.” Katharina skimmed her fingers along the red welts that crisscrossed Fronika Zeschau’s back. The girl winced but said nothing. Katharina tried to wash as gently as she could, but she couldn’t keep her doctoring from causing pain. Etta rested on another pallet patiently awaiting the herbs that would ease the discomfort on her back.
“Oh, Doctor Luther is much more than I ever dreamed,” whispered Margaret, a smile softening the angles of her face. She sat next to the pallet on the cell floor and bruised more of the herb Robert with a pestle and mortar. The bitter odor of the leaves permeated the cell. “I wonder what it would be like to marry a man like him.”
“Probably more trouble than it’s worth.” Katharina covered her patient’s wounds with a clean bandage.
The others watching from the doorway stood in absol
ute silence and stillness. Even after a week away from the abbey, they couldn’t shed the practice of communicating with whispers and signs. Though Katharina’s voice sounded loud and foreign against the bare walls of the monastery, she was attempting to adjust.
Doctor Luther had encouraged them to discard their tight wimples and veils, but none of them had been able to shed the head covering yet. They may have run from the abbey, but it wasn’t so easy to run from a lifetime of customs that were somehow comforting among all the other changes in their lives.
Katharina continued to awake during the night at the prescribed Divine Hours even though the bells didn’t summon her to the chapel for prayer. Her body was attuned to the rhythm of the prayer hours, a practice that had been as much a part of her daily routine as eating. Kneeling in her cold, dark cell and chanting the Latin prayers brought a measure of peace amid the uncertainty.
“He doesn’t appear as old as I would expect for a man of forty years,” Katharina continued, “but he also doesn’t have the sensibility and demeanor of a professor.” He wasn’t the lofty professor she’d imagined when she’d read his smuggled writings. She’d pictured the erstwhile monk to be quiet, contemplative, perhaps refined. And he was none of those things.
“He’s entirely kind and generous and helpful,” whispered Margaret. “I think him divine.”
“I’ll admit he’s been more than generous with us. But I think divine is too extravagant.” Katharina helped situate Fronika more comfortably on her straw pallet, the only furnishing in the unadorned cell. Then she stood and took the pestle and mortar from Margaret. “I grant you first claim to marrying him, Sister Margaret.”
The others tittered. Her friend blushed.
Katharina tried to muster a smile. She wouldn’t remind them of the growing hopelessness of their situation. From all appearances the coffers of the Black Cloister were empty. Doctor Luther did not have enough provisions to feed them or house them properly. And worse, there weren’t any suitable men for them to marry, at least none that she’d seen. No one had said as much, but it had become obvious that most of the monks who had once resided in the monastery had already married. The eligible were taken. Those left were too old or beneath the nuns’ social status.