by Jody Hedlund
Had she been wrong to lead her sisters away from the security and ease of their lives at Marienthron? There they always had plenty to eat, clean clothes to wear, every need met. They didn’t have to worry about anyone forcing them into a marriage with a man they didn’t love, a man who might mistreat them. But now with so few choices available, what would become of them?
She stirred the crushed herb mixture and then dipped her fingers in and tested it.
Had she too readily accepted Doctor Luther’s writings condemning cloistered life? He’d said that there was nothing uniquely spiritual about monasticism, that the work of a monk or nun stands no higher in God’s eyes than the normal work of a farmer or housewife performed in sincere faith. He’d urged them to renew their natural companionships without delay and get married while they were still young enough.
Even if his words had resonated and urged them to awake as though from a great slumber, had she done the right thing to leave and to encourage her friends to do the same? What if they couldn’t find proper husbands? What if they remained alone, uncared for, rejected? Worse, what if they were forced into loveless marriages?
Katharina shuddered. “I must go pick more leaves to thicken the poultice before tending Etta.”
Margaret moved to follow, her gentle eyes probing her, all too seeing of late.
“Stay,” Katharina said. “I shall not be long.” Surely a few minutes alone in the herb garden would help clear her mind and put their situation back into perspective.
The other ladies parted to let her pass into the long, windowless corridor. She tiptoed past the deserted cells, which had once housed monks but now sat dusty and full of cobwebs. True to their word, Luther and the remaining men had moved to the barn. She was grateful for his hospitality but had asked that he at least send one of his servants to clean and freshen their rooms.
Her request had been met with the same indifference, almost scoffing, that he’d given her requests the night they had arrived. She supposed she ought not to expect more from a man of Luther’s common background. But it had been disappointing nevertheless.
She paused outside Greta’s cell, the only closed door among the cells the nuns were occupying. Katharina grazed her fingers across the coarse wood and peeked through the barred window. Greta hadn’t moved since the last time she’d looked in, when the bells had rung at the noon hour for Sext.
Katharina had tried to reason with the girl, had implored her to repent of her sins, had entreated her to reveal the father if it was not Thomas. But Greta had met her words with only despair and growing sullenness. Although Thomas had said he’d marry Greta and take care of the baby, regardless of who the father was, he’d disappeared the very next day without even a good-bye to the maidservant. With every passing day of his absence, Katharina knew, Greta’s hopes for a better life for her baby and herself were passing by too.
Katharina sighed and continued down the hallway.
Although she wanted to hold fast to the idea that Thomas was responsible, that he was to blame for all that was happening to Greta, she couldn’t forget the anger in his expression the night she’d demanded he marry her servant. His anger had been directed toward her, as though she’d had a hand in Greta’s misfortune.
Katharina didn’t want to think about the other possibilities for Greta’s pregnancy, but the peasants’ words beside the cloister pond came back to haunt her. Church whores. What if someone within the convent had taken advantage of Greta? One of the lay workers? Perhaps even one of the priests? As much as she wanted to deny such happenings, she suspected they were all too real, if not at Marienthron, then elsewhere.
An unbidden memory stole into Katharina’s mind. When she’d been only twelve, having just started her monthly courses, one of the priests during confessional had commanded her to come to the Predigerhaus after Vespers in order to do more penance for one of her sins. Aunt Lena had intercepted her on the way. Dear Aunt Lena’s face had filled with fear when she’d discovered where Katharina was going and why. She’d ordered Katharina back to her cell and had promised to speak to the priest on her behalf.
What had Aunt Lena feared? Had her aunt warded off a priest who purposed to abuse her?
Katharina shook her head to free herself of such thoughts and then tucked her hands into her sleeves, put her head down, and rushed toward the stairwell. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Her slippers trod silently on the winding stairs. Her habit swirled the dust in a whirlwind about her feet, along with dirt, dried flies, and only the Lord knew what else. At the landing of the stairwell, she opened a narrow door that led to the cloister courtyard. She stepped into the cool spring afternoon, and her gaze swept over the empty yard with a few stone benches situated around the open square, which obviously at one time had been a beautiful and peaceful resting spot with several well-placed shade trees. Now the yard was yellowed and was in as much disrepair as the rest of the monastery.
Seeing no one, she strolled slowly along the stone path, careful to avoid tripping over straggling weeds that had grown between the cracks. She dodged broken bricks and stones that littered the pathway, fallen from the walkway walls. The outbuildings were crumbling. The grounds were overgrown. The blossoming fruit trees were in desperate need of pruning.
Nothing about the Black Cloister could begin to compare with the Marienthron abbey.
How could she endure the monastery much longer?
“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.”
“Saints have mercy,” she whispered. Doctor Luther’s words were caged in her mind. They stalked back and forth, taunting her. What if he was right? Was her future as bleak as the Black Cloister?
An ache pulsed through her chest. No one in her family except Aunt Lena loved her. Everyone had abandoned her. Even her mother had left her helpless when she’d died, making Katharina easy prey for her father’s new wife.
Katharina fumbled under the layers of her robes for the pouch tied at her waist. Her mother’s paper was still tucked inside, the last gift to her, a costly indulgence that could reunite them some day. It was a treasure, and yet it couldn’t make up for the years of not having a mother’s love.
Katharina wound through the beds of herbs, the ache pushing harder. All she wanted was a family, a real family to love, one that she would always have and never lose. Surely God wouldn’t have given her such a desire if He didn’t mean to fulfill it?
Among the disorderly garden beds, she finally found the raised box she needed and plucked the fernlike leaves that surrounded the opening pink petals. She twirled one of the leaves between her fingers, then folded it in her palm and crushed it.
Sunlight bathed her head, soaking into the black of her veil. After the damp cold of the stone monastery, the warmth was a welcome change.
“As usual, you’re helping yourself to all we have, I see.”
With a start Katharina straightened and peered over the low fence of a raised bed nearby.
There among lush new growth, Doctor Luther was kneeling and clutching a pale yellow carnation, his black habit twisted about him. He pressed the bloom against his nose and sucked in a deep breath. His face had a pallor and tautness she hadn’t noticed before.
As with the first time she’d seen him, she couldn’t keep from acknowledging there was something striking about his face, something strong and passionate that gave him a deep intensity. She had the feeling he was the sort of person who was always thinking, so that one could never have a dull conversation when he was involved.
His brow rose, revealing his steady, expectant gaze.
“This isn’t for myself,” she replied, hoping he hadn’t read the direction of her thoughts. “It’s for two sisters who are recovering from a beating.”
“Prior Zeschau’s nieces?”
“Yes.”
Doctor Luther’s f
orehead was damp with sweat and plastered with a wave of his thick dark-brown hair. He’d given up his tonsure, going from a bald head with the groomed ring characteristic of an Augustinian monk to a shaggy, tousled full head of hair.
His eyes, too, were brown. It was another feature that had stood out to her when he’d walked into the cloister parlor the night she’d met him. They’d sparkled with enthusiasm one moment, darkened with sadness the next, and glittered with anger just as quickly. She had to admit she found them rather fascinating.
“Why were they beaten?” he asked.
“The abbot discovered a letter. Flogged them. And then locked them in the cloister prison.”
He was quiet for a moment, searching her face as though attempting to piece together all that she hadn’t said. “I’m very sorry to hear it, Katharina. Then I’m partially to blame for their pain.” His simple statement was laced with anguish. In the sunlight his expressive eyes were filled with a sorrow that moved her.
“We have only ourselves to blame for any pain,” she said. “We may have been forced into the convent, but we willingly read your teachings, Doctor Luther.”
“I’m glad you read them,” he said quietly.
“We did more than read them,” she admitted. “We lived and breathed your words.”
He smiled, and it softened the deep grooves in his forehead. “I can’t take credit for the words. Most of them are straight from the Holy Scriptures.”
A thousand questions flooded her mind, questions about prayer and salvation and heaven and the church, questions that had left her restless to know more and to seek the truth. Did she dare ask him about some of the issues that troubled her? He pressed the carnation to his nose but then doubled over.
“Doctor Luther?” Frowning, she swiftly crossed to him, climbed over the sagging wattle fence, and knelt beside him.
He rocked back and forth on his knees, his body taut, his head bent to the ground.
“Herr Doctor, are you ailing?”
A groan was his only answer. He continued to rock back and forth for a moment and then finally pushed himself back up. He breathed in heavy gulps. A fresh sheen of perspiration glazed his face.
“How did you get your bruise?” He thrust his carnation back to his nose.
Startled at his abrupt change of subject, she touched the tender spot at the ridge of her cheekbone. “Tell me your symptoms.”
“You tell me about your bruise first.”
She was near enough to feel him shaking. “I’ll make you an infusion of chamomile to soothe your aches.”
“I don’t need anything.” He clenched his jaw, obviously fighting pain while stubbornly intending to make her share her story whether she wanted to or not.
With a sigh she told him about the night of the escape, climbing over the convent wall and running through the forest. “As we rested near the cloister pond, we were attacked by a group of peasants. One of them hit me.”
He stilled. His gaze skimmed over her bruise, then over her face before coming to rest on her eyes. His dark-brown eyes penetrated, probed deep, saw more than her words had expressed.
“Your turn to tell me about your sickness,” she whispered, suddenly aware that he was a mere hand span away. His size, his presence, his personality—they were magnetic, pulling on her heart in a strange way.
His gaze didn’t waver from hers. “You’ve all been very brave, Katharina.”
Her throat clogged with sudden emotion. The escape and the ride to Torgau in the back of the wagon with the endless hours of jostling and fear was a nightmare she didn’t wish to remember.
“You’ll have to be brave in the days to come too.” He winced and grabbed his stomach. “Our debtors aren’t paying their dues. They hold their purse strings too tightly.”
Once again he doubled over, and this time he retched violently. She held his robe out of the way. Whatever his ailment, surely she could find the right ingredients to help him.
“Come, Doctor Luther. I shall take you to the infirmary and make a drink to ease your pain.”
He lifted his head but then dropped it again. “Don’t fret over me. I’ll survive as I have before. The devil won’t kill me like this. It would ruin his plans to see me burn at the stake.”
“Come.” She stood, careful to avoid the new buds and blossoms of the first spring flowers. “If the devil wants you, I cannot stop him. But I can stop your pain.”
He heaved himself up. “If your drink is as strong as your bossiness, then I’ll be cured.”
She smiled. “Of course I shall cure you.”
She walked with him to the infirmary, a small room behind the kitchen. One side of the room was lined with shelves filled with tinctures and ointments and a variety of medicines the monks who had once lived there had created with great care. Next to the other wall was a long, narrow bench and a raised bedframe filled with stale straw. She had already taken stock of the supplies and found them lacking, but she had located a few of the herbs she regularly used.
Doctor Luther settled himself on the bench, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes while she steeped dried chamomile flowers in boiling water and added catnip, lavender, and honey.
Once the sweet aroma filled the room, she handed him a hot mug of the drink. “How often do you have this stomach ailment, Doctor Luther?”
His hands trembled around the mug. “More than I’d like.”
“What causes it?”
“No one knows. Only that I’m an old man with too many ailments to count.” He lifted the mug to his lips.
“Don’t drink it!” Wolfgang appeared in the doorway, his overlong black hair askew and his thick brows outlining fierce eyes. “It could be poisoned.”
“Absolutely not.” Katharina narrowed her eyes, refusing to be intimidated by the man. In the short time she’d been at the monastery, she’d already noticed the way the manservant hovered about Doctor Luther as if the professor were one of the rare and holy relics of Christ.
“We don’t know these nuns.” Wolfgang crossed with long, swift strides toward Doctor Luther. “They could be working for Duke George.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I’m only trying to ease Doctor Luther’s discomfort.”
“Doctor Luther’s life is always in jeopardy.” Wolfgang towered over her, his proximity too near for comfort. “We can never be careful enough.”
Though tempted to back away, she held her ground next to Doctor Luther and glared back at the manservant. “You certainly have an elevated opinion of your master. Surely the whole world isn’t trying to kill Doctor Luther.”
Doctor Luther blew on the hot steam rising from the drink, a faint smile quirking his lips, as though he was enjoying the spat between the two of them. “You’d be surprised at how many death threats I receive. Many more than I can count.”
“No wonder your servant exaggerates. He’s only imitating his master.”
Any trace of Doctor Luther’s humor evaporated, and his eyes darkened at her underhanded insult. “You’re right, Wolf. We must be careful. Sister Katharina might be trying to kill me.”
She wouldn’t encourage him by responding, nor would she encourage the paranoia of his servant. She took the mug from Doctor Luther and swallowed a drink. The hot liquid burned the roof of her mouth and scalded her throat. “There, Wolfgang.” She returned the mug to Doctor Luther and finally allowed herself to take a step away. “Now Doctor Luther and I shall die together.”
Wolfgang’s black scowl lifted for only an instant before resuming its typical deep crease.
“Your claws are out,” Doctor Luther said, his expression as murky as the liquid. “When you’re riled, you’re a hissing Katzen.”
“If I’m the hissing cat, what does that make you, Doctor Luther? Are you the growling hound?”
The gleam in his eyes hardened, and the muscles in his jaw visibly tightened. Without taking his gaze from hers, he took a sip of the drink.
Wolfgang gave a cry of protest and tr
ied to pry the mug from his master’s fingers. But Doctor Luther shrugged the manservant away and took another sip, his eyes unrelenting in their censure of her.
A sharp needle of guilt pricked her. After Doctor Luther’s kindness to her and the other sisters, not only in aiding their escape but now in providing shelter, she knew he was no growling hound. She ought not to have spoken so forthrightly. Should she apologize?
He spoke again before she could find the words. “If I’m the hound and you’re the cat, then it would appear we’ll have no camaraderie except quarreling. In that case, spare me your presence since I already have far too many enemies and need no more.”
At his rude dismissal any thought of an apology disappeared. She turned her back on him and started toward the door. “You may spare me your presence as well, especially since it appears your servant is doing such a superb job of caring for you.”
“I pray for the poor man who must marry you,” he called after her.
“You can rest assured, I will not marry a poor man.”
“You don’t have many choices, Katzen.”
“I shall choose whom I wish,” she said as she retreated into the corridor and moved away from him with haste, unwilling to listen to any more disparaging remarks.
She didn’t have a dowry, but she was of the patrician class. Surely that still counted for something. Surely a man of equal status would find value in her stock and in the qualities she’d acquired from her training at the abbey.
But even as her footsteps echoed down the deserted hallway, fear tapped a hollow rhythm in her chest. What did her future really hold?
The lid of the parish chest fell, and its three keys clanged. It was empty except for a few Gulden.
“Uncharitable.” Luther’s voice boomed through the dimly lit vestry. He hoped the lingering congregants in the nave below could hear him. “Ungrateful.”