Luther and Katharina

by Jody Hedlund

  The vestry with its low ceiling and stone walls was as barren as the nave of the ancient Stadtkirche. All the statues of Mary and the altars in the galleries had been removed during Luther’s year of hiding at Wartburg Castle. He’d returned to Wittenberg to calm the tempest, but he’d been too late to stop the destruction of many of the beautiful old artifacts that had once graced the churches.

  Unfortunately Karlstadt, his fellow professor and one-time friend, had led the smashing and burning of the decorations and even now had a growing following of reformers who were willing to use force. Karlstadt’s followers criticized Luther for being too conservative and for continuing to love the church with all its ancient customs.

  Somehow he’d made enemies with everyone—both inside and outside the movement.

  “Eventually the townspeople will give as they have in the past. We must be patient with them.” Melanchthon spoke quietly and calmly, watching Luther pace the length of the narrow room. For once his placid expression did nothing to soothe the turmoil rolling through Luther.

  “They’re thickheaded,” Luther added. “If they won’t give generously after hearing an entire sermon on the fruit of the Spirit, then they never will.”

  “I agree with Martinus.” Jonas leaned one shoulder nonchalantly against the wall near the open door and waved irritably at Melanchthon. The motion opened his fur-trimmed cloak, revealing the fine linen of a new black robe, a sign of wealth and status that was foreign to Luther. Unlike the humbler Melanchthon, Jonas was tall, had a darker complexion, and had a regal bearing that was formidable at times. Nevertheless, both men had become brothers to him.

  “The people have been stingy and rude,” Jonas continued. “After all Martinus does for them, the least they can do is provide for his needs.”

  Pastor Bugenhagen, the pastor of the Stadtkirche, locked the small wooden chest. “The people are reacting in fear. Everyone knows the danger in helping the nuns, especially now that they’ve been excommunicated.”

  “We’ve all been excommunicated, and the town hasn’t suffered.” Frustration forced Luther’s voice to a higher decibel. The stores of food at the Black Cloister were low. They had used the last of the malt for brewing beer. The supplies Koppe had given them had dwindled to nothing. And now the situation was desperate.

  He needed money.

  Pastor Bugenhagen stood behind the counting table and folded his hands across his well-rounded chest. His wiry hair and long beard gave him a nomadic quality, causing Luther more than once to consider giving this shepherd of the congregation a staff to complete the picture.

  “The men of this town know the elector doesn’t support your efforts to empty the monasteries,” the pastor said. “If Elector Frederick implicates you in the escape of these nuns, they could face charges too if they help you.”

  “Amsdorf’s at the elector’s court. He’ll smooth things over with him as he usually does. Besides, I only need enough supplies for another week or two.” Luther stopped to face their wise pastor. “It shouldn’t take much longer than that to hear back from their kinsmen.”

  “Two weeks is too long.” Pastor Bugenhagen rubbed his long beard thoughtfully. The sunlight streaking through a round window at the peak of the slanted ceiling seemed to form a halo above his head. “You’ve already put yourself in a compromising position by having the nuns live with you at the Black Cloister. If you keep them any longer, they will bring you more disgrace.”

  “I’m already disgraced!”

  “Have you heard the rumors?” Jonas flashed a crooked grin.

  “There are always rumors.”

  “Not like these,” said Pastor Bugenhagen with a sad shake of his head.

  Jonas’s grin widened. “You’re the debauching monk with a household of vestal virgins to use at your lustful leisure.”

  Luther lowered himself to the bench next to Melanchthon and grinned at Jonas. “My enemies have given me the same privileges as the pope.”

  Jonas snorted. Melanchthon gave a soft chuckle.

  “This isn’t a joking matter.” Pastor Bugenhagen frowned at them. Then he picked up his Bible from the table and flipped it open. “In all things showing yourself to be a pattern of good works—”

  “Titus two,” Luther interrupted. “That one who is an opponent may be ashamed, having nothing evil to say of you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Luther understood the pastor’s admonishment, but he shook his head. “By helping the nuns, I’m only doing what’s right. I won’t live at the mercy of the slander of my enemies. They want me to cower and hide. But I’m determined to stay true to God’s calling to bring change to the church. I only wish that I could rescue all captive consciences and empty all the cloisters.”

  Pastor Bugenhagen’s expression remained troubled.

  The small upstairs room grew silent. The rolling carts, clomping of horses, and calls of passersby from the market square outside the Stadtkirche seemed to fill the vestry.

  “I’ll write to Amsdorf,” Jonas finally said. “He’ll find a way to wring Gulden from the nobles at court. He always does.”

  “I’ll send him a letter too,” Luther said. “If we both ask him to take up a collection from the courtiers, he won’t be able to resist.”

  “In the meantime I must insist,” Pastor Bugenhagen added, “that you do your best to get the nuns out of the monastery as quickly as possible.”

  A sharp knock on the open vestry door brought Luther to his feet.

  To his surprise Sister Katharina stepped into the doorway. Her shoulders heaved and her breathing was labored as if she’d just been running. She was still cloaked in her habit and veil. Even so, he was struck again by the loveliness of her face, the unblemished skin, smooth cheeks, and finely drawn mouth. In contrast to the stark white of her wimple, her blue eyes were keen, and they swept around the room, touching on each of the men before coming to land on him.

  “Doctor Luther, you must come with us this instant.”

  Luther bridled at her command. Why did she have the ability to make him feel as if he were beneath her every time she spoke? “You can be certain, my good men, that this Katzen will be the first one to go from the monastery.”

  Sister Katharina’s expression was cool, but he caught a flicker of urgency in her eyes that tempered him. “We’re in need of an escort back to the monastery,” she said. “It would seem some of the townspeople dislike us.”

  “What happened?” Melanchthon asked, rising, his face tightening with concern.

  “After the conclusion of the service, we crossed the market square and headed down Collegienstrasse,” she said. “As we walked, we attracted a crowd. We tried to pass through quietly and calmly, but the taunts and comments frightened some of the sisters.”

  Sudden anxiety swelled inside Luther, propelling him across the room to her. “Did anyone hurt you?”

  “No, we turned around and hastened back to the confines of Saint Mary’s. But we would feel safer with your escort.”

  He stopped in front of her and caught the sweet and spicy scent of herbs that lingered around her. Her eyes were unyielding, but at the slight tremor of her lip, a strange protectiveness surged through him and made him want to reach out and touch her and reassure her that she would be safe.

  “We’re at your service.” Melanchthon stepped next to him, pushing him aside, and gave Katharina a customary bow. “I’m Philipp Melanchthon. These are my friends, Pastor Bugenhagen and Justus Jonas.”

  She curtsied at the men and then offered Melanchthon a tentative smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  Melanchthon is kind? What about him? Irritation replaced all thoughts of concern. Didn’t he merit a compliment and a smile? “Sister Katharina, I’ll escort you and the others home. But you’ll have to wait for us in the nave. We’ll be down when we’re finished here.”

  Melanchthon raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Aren’t we done?” Jonas asked bluntly.

  “No, w
e’re not.” Luther glared at his friends, daring them to challenge him. Melanchthon and Pastor Bugenhagen looked at their boots. Jonas stared openly between Luther and Katharina, his eyes narrowing in what appeared to be nonchalant appraisal.

  Sister Katharina curtsied again. “Very well, Doctor Luther. We shall be waiting.”

  After she left, the men were silent and stared at him.

  Luther flipped through the pages of his Bible and tried to ignore the embarrassment gaining momentum in his gut the longer they stared. Maybe he had overreacted to Sister Katharina just slightly. But he wasn’t accustomed to speaking with women. They, of all people, should know that.

  Melanchthon finally cleared his throat. “If they’re all as fair and fine as Sister Katharina, then you’ll have no problem finding husbands or homes for them.”

  Luther wished he had Melanchthon’s moderation and peace. He couldn’t deny that at times he envied his young friend’s ability to see the good in every person and situation.

  “Martinus will be the first to take one of them as a bride,” Jonas said with a teasing guffaw.

  “Absolutely not.” Luther knew his protest was too loud, but it was fueled by the swirling heat in his gut. “You can be the first, Justus. You need a woman to tame your crankiness.”

  “I won’t ever marry, and you know it. I’m one of those rare Paul types, those one-in-a-thousand individuals who would rather work on the kingdom of heaven and beget spiritual children.”

  “Then we’re alike.”

  “Hardly.” Jonas’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “The blood runs too hot through your body. You won’t be able to resist marriage forever.”

  Luther began to deny it.

  “A feisty cat might be just what the old gander needs.”

  “Ach.” Luther moved toward the door, ducking his head and praying his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Let’s go.”

  The sweet smell of the steeping malt filled the brewery. Katharina sprinkled more heated water into the vat, covering the grist as Brother Gabriel had instructed her.

  The old monk was stoop shouldered and watery eyed with age. He wasn’t a man of many words, but he had been the kindest to them since their arrival and treated them with a gentleness that made her think of Aunt Lena. And, of course, every time she thought of Aunt Lena, her heart ached with the guilt of leaving her.

  “The sparging’s almost done,” Brother Gabriel whispered, pumping a bellow on the flame to raise the temperature. “We must get the last of the sugar out of the grain if we want to have the kind of beer Doctor Luther likes.”

  “Now we have our wort?” she asked.

  “Very soon.”

  “Make ready the hops, Margaret.”

  Her friend sat on the dirt floor of the shed on a thin scattering of hay. She leaned against the rough-hewed plank wall, her blank gaze on the open door and the steady drip of rain outside.

  The brewing process obviously didn’t hold the same fascination for Margaret as it did for her. Especially now. Only that morning another of the sisters had left the monastery. Magdalene von Staupitz’s younger brother had accepted her into his home. Earlier Lanita von Golis had gone to live with her sister and would regain the title Lady of Colditz. Then Elsa von Canitz had left to stay with relatives. The good-byes had been harder than Katharina had imagined, and she could completely understand Margaret’s melancholy about being left behind.

  Six of them remained. But they’d heard rumors that Ava Grossin would likely be the next to leave since her family was still prosperous and her parents had agreed to let her live on their estate until they arranged a marriage.

  Of course, there was still the problem of Greta’s pregnancy. While the servant had finally arisen from her pallet and had begun performing some of her duties again, Katharina was at a loss about what to do for the girl. Katharina had tried to probe further, to discover the truth about the father of the baby and about Thomas, but Greta only shook her head and refused to speak of the matter.

  “Margaret.” Katharina spoke gently. “Something will work out for us soon. You’ll see.”

  The young woman turned sad eyes on her. After the scant rations they’d endured at the Black Cloister, Margaret’s thin face was gaunter and her narrow nose more defined.

  Doctor Luther wouldn’t get letters from their families. Margaret’s family, the von Schonfelds, and her own family, the von Boras, lived in Duke George’s territory in the part of Saxony where preachers who followed Luther’s teachings were imprisoned and Luther’s books were burned. Why would their families put themselves in danger to help the daughters they had discarded so many years ago? If they hadn’t wanted them then, they weren’t likely to change their minds now. Especially with the threat of persecution.

  Katharina didn’t harbor any hope of hearing from her family. She expected what she’d always gotten from them—silence. Even so, each letter that arrived for someone else pricked at the hurt buried deep inside and made her wish she’d been born first instead of her sister. Then she would have been the one already married and having babies.

  She knew Margaret’s forlorn feeling; it reflected her own.

  Margaret reached for the basket of hops next to her but tipped it, spilling plants onto the floor. She stared at them listlessly, her usual cheer having blown away.

  Katharina knelt and picked up a hop. She brushed off the dirt and placed the hop in the basket.

  “I’m sorry, Katharina.” Her friend’s voice wavered, and her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “We’re hungry. We’ve no change of clothes. The townspeople harass us every time we venture out of the monastery. And to make matters worse, our families won’t claim us.”

  “We knew that would be true when we made our plans to leave the abbey.”

  “But no one likes us. And it appears no one will have us.”

  “We’ll find husbands. I’ll make sure of it.” Katharina had no plans for how she would accomplish her mission, but she wouldn’t give up hope yet.

  “Do you ever wonder if we should have stayed?” Margaret asked. “What if God is displeased with us? What if He’s punishing us for forsaking our vows?”

  “We had no choice in making our vows; therefore God won’t hold us accountable.”

  “But what if we’ve thrown away our best chance at salvation?”

  Margaret’s words were barely distinguishable above the bubbling pot. Nonetheless, Katharina heard her friend’s doubt as loudly as if she’d shouted it. “Remember that Doctor Luther has spoken about the priesthood of all believers. He says that Scripture doesn’t set apart clergy as being more holy than anyone else. Being a nun or monk doesn’t bring us closer to salvation. We’re just as sinful and in need of God’s grace as anyone else.”

  His teachings had been freeing. But she spoke to reassure herself as much as to comfort Margaret.

  Katharina scooped the rest of the hops into the basket and stood. Brother Gabriel had begun straining the wort through the false bottom of the mash tun, separating the liquid from the crushed barley and wheat and draining it into a large copper kettle.

  “What do you think, Brother Gabriel?” she asked. “You’ve heard Doctor Luther speak more than we have. Share what you’ve learned.”

  Something flashed in the old brother’s eyes that Katharina didn’t understand. “I cannot since I’m only a humble man.” His whisper was barely audible.

  Margaret released a winded sigh. Her wimple was askew, her habit gray from lack of washing. “What if we were meant to be set apart as the virgin spouses of Christ? How can the marriage union of a mortal man and woman be better than a marriage union to Christ?”

  All their lives they’d been taught that celibacy was the highest calling for a man or woman, that it was far superior to earthly matrimony. Who were they to question what the learned and holy church fathers had believed for centuries?

  Of course, Doctor Luther had warned that they might have these doubts about what they’d done, and he’d encouraged
them to study the passages of Scripture that recommended and praised marriage. But studying the Bible was another new concept. The holy saints of the past had written interpretations of the Bible to instruct them. Reading the holiest book itself wasn’t necessary or safe for the common person. Even attempting to read the commentaries of the saints was better left to the cardinals and pope. Did she dare try what her superiors wouldn’t do? How could she hope to understand Scripture if the most educated men couldn’t?

  Doctor Luther had given them one of his recently printed New Testaments—the illegal version he’d translated into common German. But Katharina had determined that if she ever needed to read the Bible, she would do it properly, in Latin.

  She reached over and gave Margaret’s shoulder a tender squeeze. “Remember all we’ve read and heard? We have to continue to believe we’re doing the right thing.”

  Margaret lifted her head, and Katharina was relieved to see a spark in the woman’s eyes again. “You’re a true friend, Katharina. And I have no doubt God will bless you with a wonderful husband in reward for all you’ve done.”

  “He’ll bless you too.” She grasped her friend’s cold fingers; the warmth of the brewery fire had not taken the chill off the day.

  At Brother Gabriel’s beckoning, Katharina returned to the kettle. “Shall I add the hops?” Katharina asked.

  Because of her prodding during another brewing session, the old monk had reluctantly shared his story—how he had arrived at the Black Cloister the previous year, after Doctor Luther had returned from hiding in Wartburg Castle. Brother Gabriel’s monastery in the south had closed when the monks there had followed Luther’s advice to get married. As an aged man with no skilled trade and no place to go, he’d sought the mercy of Doctor Luther.

  Brother Gabriel moved the kettle to the flame. “It’s ready.”

  Katharina dumped the hops into the wort, careful not to splash the liquid.

  “Gabriel, get the Obstwasser!” Wolfgang burst through the door of the shed. He heaved for breath, his black hair wild from the wind and rain. “Quick! Doctor Luther is having one of his melancholy episodes.”