Luther and Katharina

by Jody Hedlund

  “I want my nuns back.” Abbot Baltazar’s bulging eyes swept over the women.

  Katharina fought against the urge to flee and made herself stay where she was.

  “They’re not yours,” Doctor Luther said.

  “They belong to Marienthron, and it’s my sacred duty to see that they return to their Bridegroom Christ and the Mother Church. If I don’t attempt to bring these prodigals back, I’ll stand accountable when they suffer the torments of hell.”

  “You’re the only one here who needs to worry about the torments of hell.”

  Abbot Baltazar started to answer, but Doctor Luther continued, clearly accustomed to waging war with his words. “I think you want them back,” he said loudly enough that the growing crowd could hear him, “so you can defile more of them in your common brothel.”

  “I’ve heard rumors that you’re the one with the brothel these days.”

  Katharina cringed at the abbot’s accusation. Was that really what people were saying about Doctor Luther and her sisters? If they lived through this encounter with the abbot, she resolved she wouldn’t hesitate to move out of the Black Cloister, no matter where Doctor Luther sent her.

  Baltazar’s men formed a half circle, like a net drawing tighter.

  Wolfgang moved in front of Doctor Luther and waved his blade at the peasants. But they responded by raising their knives. Dread pulsed through Katharina, turning her blood to ice. No matter his good intentions, Wolfgang wouldn’t be able to ward off all the attackers. Perhaps they’d been unwise to rush out of the monastery without a plan for how to prevent an attack. Should she usher her sisters back inside now while they still had a chance? But how could she leave Doctor Luther at the mercy of the abbot and his men?

  Several young men in the crowd elbowed their way forward. Their cloaks and berets signified them as university students. “Do you need help, Doctor Luther?”

  Abbot Baltazar’s men froze.

  Half a dozen more scholars armed with spears and halberds moved out of the crowd. “We don’t take kindly to anyone threatening our Doctor Luther.”

  He gave them a grateful nod. “Yes, let’s give Abbot Baltazar a hand back into his cart and usher him from Wittenberg. Those who prohibit marriage and force perpetual celibacy on young women against their will have neither the authority nor the right to be here in our town.”

  Abbot Baltazar eyed the students, who were closing around him. “Are you putting yourself above the pope and the laws of Christendom, laws that have been followed and accepted by saints and scholars for hundreds of years?”

  “The Archbishop of Mainz is selling licenses to his priests to permit them to keep concubines. Shall we stand by and accept such a twisted practice even if our forefathers did the same?”

  Abbot Baltazar scowled and again assessed the armed citizens of Wittenberg before his gaze lingered on Greta.

  The girl paid no heed to the abbot and instead stared at Thomas with blank eyes.

  A sickening thought lodged in Katharine’s mind. Was Abbot Baltazar the father of Greta’s baby? Katharina closed her eyes briefly to fight off the nausea that rose swiftly at the idea. As much as she wanted to deny that the abbot would do such a thing, she knew it was possible. He’d visited Marienthron all too frequently, and Greta had a comeliness that wimples couldn’t hide. It made sense that the abbot would have noticed her. What if he’d taken advantage of the young woman?

  Suddenly Katharina knew with certainty that he was the father of Greta’s unborn babe. That’s why Thomas had returned to Marienthron—to punish the abbot for abusing Greta. Apparently the abbot had captured Thomas before he could accomplish his revenge.

  “Get our primary witness back onto the cart,” Abbot Baltazar ordered his men as he returned to the safety of his wagon. “We’ll take him to Elector Frederick. Once the elector hears this worthless peasant’s confession, he’ll have no choice but to turn Martin Luther over to me, along with these wayward nuns.”

  The men gathered Thomas without care and dumped him into the wagon bed. The man’s cry of pain echoed through the silent crowd.

  “I’ve heard rumors that Bundschuh peasants are holding secret meetings and plotting revolt.” The muscles in Doctor Luther’s jaw were rigid, his eyes black with contempt. “Now I know why. They’re treated worse than dogs by the very men who should shepherd them.”

  The Bundschuh peasants? Katharina’s mind spun back to their escape from the convent, to the peasants they’d encountered at the pond, to the strange circumstance of their early morning meeting. Had the men been meeting to plan a rebellion? Had Thomas been a part of that?

  Abbot Baltazar climbed onto the seat of the wagon and settled his tunic about his large frame. “I’ll get my nuns back one way or another. You won’t be able to stop the work of God.”

  A chill crawled up Katharina’s spine. God help her if Abbot Baltazar ever carried through with his threat.

  “It’s my sacred duty as confessor and overseer of Marienthron to restore all the sisters who’ve abandoned their vows.” The abbot looked directly at her.

  The chill penetrated to the very marrow of Katharina’s bones.

  “I will not cease my vigilance,” he said, “until they are back where they belong.”

  Overwhelming helplessness seeped through Katharina as she scrubbed the tiles in the entry of the Reichenbachs’ home. For all her brave words to Doctor Luther about being nobly born and not doing the work of a common laborer, she hadn’t been able to prevent the fall from dignity.

  A week ago, at the beginning of May, she’d had no choice but to leave the Black Cloister and go to live in the home Doctor Luther had arranged for her. With her escape from the convent, she’d hoped she might take a hand in shaping her own destiny, but the truth was, as a woman, she was merely a pawn to be shuffled about by the men in her life. Whether controlled by her father or Doctor Luther or someone else, she had little freedom to go where she pleased or do as she liked.

  She sat back on her heels and kneaded the ache in her neck. The vaulted ceiling and leaded-glass windows afforded brightness in the room, illuminating the glossy loose threads in the tapestries hanging on the paneled walls. In some ways she felt as though her life was like a tapestry. With each passing day the silk was unraveling further and floating neglected in the dusty air. Her neatly ordered life had come undone. Her plans for the future were left hanging. And now here she was, reduced to the life of a servant, no better than Greta.

  Poor Greta. Katharina shuddered every time she thought about Greta being violated by the abbot. Beyond the revulsion, it stirred something deeper in her that she couldn’t name. All she knew was that she was greatly disturbed by the fact that someone who was charged with being their protector had not only failed to keep them safe but had been the one to violate the fragile beauty needing protection.

  With a heavy sigh she lowered the scrub brush back to the floor. Now Greta was gone. She had vanished in the night. Without a word. And despite Katharina’s inquiries, she hadn’t been able to locate the girl. She’d asked Doctor Luther for help, but he’d had no success in his inquiries either.

  A door banged open behind her, and the heavy footsteps of wooden pattens clomped across the floor.

  Katharina kept her attention fixed on the diamond pattern of the tiles.

  The footsteps came to a halt in front of her, and the velvet hem of a richly embroidered gown swished across the narrow, pointed shoes. From the corner of her eye, she could see the path of dirty prints that now trailed across the floor—the floor she had been washing since the bells of Saint Mary’s had pealed for Prime.

  Humiliation pulsed through her again, as it did every time she had to face Elsa Reichenbach, her new mistress. The woman was the wife of the town mayor, of burgher class, not titled as she was. But Elsa acted far above her status, and Katharina had quickly learned that the woman relished treating her as if she were no better than a peasant. She had no doubt Elsa had neglected to remove her muddy woo
den shoes at the door, as was customary, just to make more work for her.

  Katharina sprinkled more sand on the floor and rubbed it with the wet brush, loosening the dirt. Her hands were chafed from the lye soap; they were no longer the soft, smooth hands she’d always had in the abbey.

  Elsa tapped her patten as if trying to draw Katharina’s attention to the special hem on her gown, a clothing privilege Katharina wouldn’t have now as a servant.

  Katharina scrubbed harder, letting her anger at the injustice of her situation give her fresh vigor—anger at herself for getting trapped into the position, anger at Doctor Luther for leaving her no other choice, and anger at the Reichenbachs for allowing her to be treated as a servant. Part of her knew that she was being irrational, that she couldn’t blame anyone, that she couldn’t stay at the Black Cloister any longer, especially in light of the horrible rumors about the cloister becoming a brothel. Even so, her chest ached at all that had happened not only to herself but also to Greta.

  “Katharina.” Elsa spoke haughtily. Her dark hair was pulled back severely under a short veil, and her hairline had been plucked to create a higher forehead as was the custom of some women who indulged in vanity even though the church considered it a sin. “It’s come to my attention you know Latin.”

  “Yes, you’re correct.”

  “It’s my understanding that you were instructed in Latin at the convent. Do you know it well enough to teach the children?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you’re done with the floor, I’d like you to go to the girls’ room and begin teaching them Latin.”

  Teaching Latin to the children? The thought sent a shimmer of hope into the gloom that had clouded her mind of late. At Marienthron she’d always loved having one of the young postulants shadow her in the herb garden or infirmary.

  “You’re fairly useless as a servant, not that I needed another one anyway,” Elsa continued, waving airily to another servant, who was descending the spiral staircase. “Perhaps by tutoring my daughters, you’ll finally be able to earn your keep here in our household.”

  Katharina reached for the rag and wiped the sand and dirt away, revealing a shining tile. The mayor’s wife had already made it quite clear that she’d opened her home to Katharina only out of obligation to Doctor Luther and to her husband. Nevertheless, it stung Katharina to know she wasn’t wanted even as a servant. But she couldn’t let Elsa see her distress.

  Elsa tapped her shoe again.

  “Very well.” Katharina slid her pad toward the next tile and rearranged the faded green skirt, one of Elsa’s castoffs. The edge was ragged, evidence that Elsa had ripped away the ribbon and removed any traces of class status. “I shall teach your daughters, Elsa. You may let them know I’ll be with them shortly.” She sloshed water onto the floor and returned to her work with what she hoped was an attitude of dismissal.

  After a moment Elsa retreated the way she’d come, leaving another trail of dirty footprints. When she disappeared through the door into the main hall, Katharina blew out a shaky breath and hugged her arms across the lacing of her bodice. She’d known she must eventually give up the comfortable familiarity of the habit, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of nakedness. Compared to the loose flowing tunic she’d worn all her life, the tight sleeves and bodice of her new clothing constricted her movement and showed much more of her figure and skin. Despite the wide collar over her neck and shoulders shielding her bust, she felt exposed.

  She’d also discarded her nun’s wimple and donned a thin head cap that didn’t conceal her hair. After years of wearing the linen wrapped tightly around her head and neck, the barrenness was strange. From time to time she found herself fingering a strand of the blond hair that came loose from the simple ribbon she used to tie it back. Its silky fairness was foreign, and although she didn’t want to fall into the sin of vanity, she secretly longed for the day when her hair would grow past her shoulders and cascade down to her waist, the way a virgin’s ought to.

  A thumping sounded on the front door.

  She started, her body tensing. What if Abbot Baltazar was returning from his visit to the elector to capture her?

  A servant hurried to the door. Katharina wanted to command him to bar it and post a plague sign, but what good would it do?

  Her gaze darted around the empty room, searching for a place to hide, somewhere to run. But where? She had no place to flee to, no one to help her, no one who cared whether she lived or died.

  The servant opened the door, spilling sunshine across the tile and revealing the busy clatter of Mittelstrasse at midday—a passing carriage and calls from the nearby Marktplatz. Before Katharina could move, a young man elbowed past the servant into the room. His tabard, rimmed with lynx fur, flapped around his legs and revealed slashed breeches. One leg was yellow, the other black, with taffeta forming bands in differing patterns on each.

  “Don’t delay.” He tilted his velvet beret and revealed a sharply featured face. “Take me to the nun.”

  Katharina shook off the apprehension. A woman of her status wouldn’t cower. She would face adversity with dignity. Wiping her hands on her linen apron, she stood and pulled her petite frame to its fullest height. “I’m Katharina von Bora. You’re seeking me?”

  The man’s attention shot to her, and his eyes widened as he took in the length of her. A sudden smile lit his clean-shaven face.

  At his perusal she had the urge to fold her arms across her too-defined chest. Instead she forced herself not to fidget but to be composed, as a lady should be.

  He crossed the space between them. “Ah, at last I get to meet one of the runaway nuns.” The aristocratic lines of his face were softened by a boyish charm. His shoulder-length hair, neatly cropped in the style of Emperor Charles V, added to the aura of his youth and noble status. He didn’t look like anyone Abbot Baltazar would hire.

  “If you have any intention of persuading me to return to Marienthron, you may as well know I won’t go back,” she stated.

  “Persuade you to return to Marienthron?” Thick lashes blinked at her, and his gaze lingered over her bare skin making her wish for the protection of her veil. “No, I won’t take you to Marienthron. Instead, I believe I’ll take a pretty lady like you with me to Nuremberg.”

  His words sent a wave of emotions through her—relief, surprise, embarrassment.

  They hadn’t been properly introduced. She had no skill in exchanging banter with men. Who was he anyway?

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, stepping back. Proper etiquette demanded formal introductions before they spoke.

  “Is that you, Jerome?” A door opened, and Elsa’s voice came from behind Katharina.

  “My dear Elsa.” He flashed a brief smile at the mayor’s wife but brought his attention back to Katharina.

  Elsa crossed the tiles once more, her pattens clunking with undisguised eagerness. She brushed past Katharina, pushing her aside, and held out her hand to the man. With a flourish he reached for her fingers and brushed them with a kiss.

  A delighted smile transformed Elsa’s plain face—the first smile Katharina had seen. “I thought I heard your voice. And I’m glad I wasn’t deceived.”

  “I’ve only just arrived in Wittenberg.” The man’s voice was almost a purr. “And I’ve come here first to see you.”

  Rosy pink circled Elsa’s high cheeks. “How long will you stay this time, Jerome? Last time was too short.”

  His smile flashed wider, and he shrugged. “I’ll stay until your husband gets tired of my flirting and kicks me out like the last time.”

  Elsa’s blush deepened. “He’s too stodgy.”

  “He cannot be too stodgy, Elsa.” He winked at Katharina. “Everyone in Nuremberg is talking about the mayor of Wittenberg’s new distraction.”

  Katharina gasped at the same time as Elsa.

  Jerome threw back his head and laughed.

  Katharina could only stare, too astonished by his brashness to speak in defense of
herself.

  Elsa, however, spoke rapidly. “We didn’t have a choice. When Doctor Luther asks for a favor, who can say no?”

  “Of course,” Jerome said smoothly. “Who can say no to the great Martin Luther? Now introduce me to your guest, my dear Elsa. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Elsa tucked her hand into the crook of Jerome’s arm and smiled up at him. “She’s not my guest. And she isn’t worth your time.”

  “I have all the time in the world.” Jerome slipped out of her grasp. Then he shouldered out of his tabard and held it out to a waiting servant. “Humor me.”

  Elsa hesitated, but when he smiled at her, she sighed. “Jerome Baumgartner, meet Katharina von Bora.”

  He reached for Katharina’s hand and lifted it to his lips. His deep blue eyes locked with hers, and there was a flash of desire in them that quickened her pulse—whether with fear or anticipation, she knew naught.

  The instant the soft moistness of his lips grazed her fingers, her breath stuck in her throat.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Fräulein Katharina.” His voice was soft and inviting. “I’d heard you were lovely, but the words of praise did not do you justice.”

  She pulled her hand away from him, but his gaze wouldn’t let her go. She’d never had anyone speak to her so intimately, and she had no idea how to respond. Although Elsa apparently had learned the art of beguiling a man, the abbey had never schooled her in such matters.

  Flustered, all she could manage was a shy smile.

  “We all agree,” Melanchthon said. “You should go into hiding as soon as possible.”

  The shade of the sprawling maple covered the faces of Luther’s friends, but the heat of the May afternoon had wilted him. He’d thought the cloister yard would serve as a cool spot for their meeting, but the spring temperatures had grown unseasonably warm.

  The innocent giggles of Melanchthon’s young daughter, Anna, drew his attention to the center courtyard, where she was running and chasing a butterfly. At two she was hardly taller than the long grass that had sprung up in the cloister yard. Her fair hair with tints of Melanchthon’s red shone in the sunlight, the wispy curls blowing in the warm breeze. Compared to the current dismal state of things, she was a buttercup in a field of weeds.