by Jody Hedlund
“Some of the apprentices were talking in the workshop,” Margaret continued, “and I couldn’t help but listen.”
“And why were you in the workshop? You’re now taking up painting?”
A shy smile brought light to Margaret’s face. “I found a portrait of Doctor Luther. Master Cranach isn’t finished with it yet, but the likeness is so astounding I can’t stay away from it.”
“Then you’re truly smitten.”
“Doctor Luther’s the most amazing man I’ve ever known.”
Katharina’s thoughts returned to the last time she’d helped Doctor Luther. A portrait of him was painted in her mind—him sitting on the hard infirmary bench with Anna Melanchthon in his arms, his ink-stained fingers combing tenderly through the toddler’s hair.
Inevitably Katharina’s thoughts diverged to the way Doctor Luther had looked at her when she’d first walked into the infirmary. There had been something in his eyes, something intense, that had told her he was seeing her as a woman and that he liked what he saw. Her belly sparked with a strange heat just thinking about that moment.
She scrambled to conjure Jerome’s face in place of Doctor Luther’s, which should have been easy since she hadn’t seen Doctor Luther often since that day in the infirmary. He was apparently busy traveling and preaching in the surrounding towns. She’d heard he was venturing out even though the risk was high. And yet she couldn’t keep from wondering if his distance was due to more than just his travels, for even when he was in Wittenberg, he never sought her out, although she wasn’t sure why she expected that he would.
“I would consider myself blessed by Saint Priscilla and the Virgin Mother herself for the chance to marry him,” Margaret said wistfully.
Katharina sat up, and as she studied the eagerness in her friend’s face, her muscles tightened in a protest she couldn’t understand. “Has he shown you any interest?”
Margaret sighed. “Not in the least. I can’t remember when he’s ever even looked at me.”
Strangely, a whisper of relief loosened the tension in Katharina’s spine. At least she could say with confidence that Doctor Luther had looked at her. He’d looked at her long and hard and—dare she say—with desire.
With a shake of her head, she shoved herself off the ground and stood before Margaret could glimpse her thoughts. What did it matter if Doctor Luther had paid her attention on occasion? He wasn’t looking at her anymore. And she didn’t want him to. If Margaret wanted to marry Doctor Luther, then she should have him.
“We shall have to find a way to make Doctor Luther notice you.” Katharina reached for her battledore and used the end of it to ladle her linens out of the shallow pool at the edge of the river where she’d been soaking them.
“How will he ever notice me?” Margaret rose and began to fish her linens out of the river too.
“We’ll think of something.” Katharina wrung the water out of the undertunic, then spread it on the washing stock, a small flat table Margaret had borrowed from Master Cranach’s house.
“Now tell me the rumor about Jerome.”
Margaret glanced around. The riverbank was crowded with clusters of women from the town who were taking advantage of the warmth and sunshine to launder bedding and undergarments. The townswomen had peered at them from time to time but had thankfully left them undisturbed on the fringe.
Margaret lowered her head and voice. “The other Cranach servants have placed bets on you and Jerome.”
“Go on.” Katharina rubbed her tunic with the heavy block end of the battledore, loosening the odor and grime that had accumulated since the previous washing weeks ago.
“Jerome has made claims that he’ll bed the virgin nun before the feast of the Visitation.”
“I’ve heard such nonsense already.” Embarrassment infused Katharina as it had the first time she’d overheard the whispers.
“Then you don’t think it’s true?”
“It is complete and utter foolish talk.” At least she desperately prayed it was. “Jerome has been kind and considerate in every way.”
“Then his intentions toward you are truly honorable?”
“I have reason to believe he may propose marriage soon.”
Margaret’s eyes widened.
Katharina began pounding the linen. “He cannot stay in Wittenberg much longer. And he’s hinted at taking me to his family estate in Nuremberg.”
“Oh, Katharina, how divine.” Margaret smoothed a pair of hose onto the washing stock next to her. “I know life with Jerome will be exactly what you’ve wanted. You’ll finally have a family of your own.” She paused and her voice caught. “But I shall miss you if you move to Nuremberg.”
They’d been together since their families had abandoned them, scared little girls who’d found comfort in their forbidden friendship amid the strange rituals and cold silence of the convent.
“I’m sure we’ll visit Wittenberg from time to time. Jerome is always talking about how he misses his university days.” Katharina’s arms ached from sledging the battledore against the clothes. After only a few minutes, the bat had grown so heavy it felt as if it were made of bricks instead of wood. Her breath grew choppy until finally she stopped.
“How do the other women do this?” she asked. “I’ve laundered just one garment, and I’m already tired.” She peered at the others along the riverbank, at the naturalness and efficiency with which they worked. Servants had done the laundry for them at Marienthron, servants like Greta. She’d never realized how hard those lay sisters had to work, how much effort went into something as simple as washing clothes.
She sighed. Maybe she’d made Greta work too hard. Or maybe she hadn’t shown her servant enough appreciation for all the tasks she’d done daily. Perhaps if she’d shown Greta more compassion or if she’d reassured Greta that somehow they’d make things work out…She certainly hadn’t treated Greta the way Elsa treated her, had she? What if she’d done more for her servant? Maybe then Greta wouldn’t have run away.
Katharina narrowed her eyes at the sight of two men approaching a cluster of women near the wooden bridge that spanned the Elbe.
Margaret pounded her hose. “I rather like doing the washing and the other jobs Mistress Cranach assigns me. The work makes the hours pass more quickly. My days are much more interesting now than they were at the convent.”
The men spoke with the townswomen. Then one of the housewives turned and pointed toward her and Margaret.
A shiver streaked up Katharina’s backbone.
“I never realized the monotony of our lives.” Margaret hammered her linens, raising her voice above the racket. “So much of our time was taken with services and prayers and embroidery.”
The men nodded at the townswomen, then turned and began strolling forward again.
From a distance they were not recognizable. Their gaits were unhurried, and yet Katharina’s pulse picked up speed. Should she order Margaret to gather their dripping linens and run? She glanced across the span of grass to the thick wall of the town and the gate leading inside. They could make it if they hurried.
“Do you miss anything about our life at the convent?” Margaret dropped the battledore and massaged her arms.
Katharina shook off the trepidation. Surely they had nothing to worry about—not when they were surrounded by so many people.
“Of course I miss Aunt Lena.” Katharina wished she could discover how the dear woman was. She ached every time she thought of the words of love her aunt had whispered during the night of the escape, and she longed to hear them again. But attempting any contact would only put Aunt Lena in greater danger, and she wouldn’t risk that again.
“I miss the other sisters.” Margaret picked up another linen and began smoothing it out. “And I admit, there are times when I miss our devotion to God. Here, outside convent walls, it’s too easy to get swept away in the busyness of our lives and neglect to give God the attention and prayers He deserves.”
Katharina nodded,
having felt the same tug. But her attention again strayed to the men drawing nearer. Something about them looked familiar. Too familiar. Fear slithered up her arms, making the pale hairs there stand on end.
“Margaret, collect your laundry.”
Margaret looked at her with wide eyes and then followed her gaze. “Isn’t that the woodcutter from Marienthron?”
Katharina’s chest tightened. Margaret was right. The shorter man with thick arms was the woodcutter. The missing earlobe and scar along the jaw could belong to no one else. The other was one of the unskilled laborers who sometimes worked with the convent’s sheep and goats.
“I wonder why they’re here.” Margaret let her linen dangle into the grass.
The woodcutter said something to his companion, and their strides grew longer and quicker.
“We need to run, Margaret. Now.” Katharina grabbed a fistful of her skirt and scrambled up the bank.
“What about the laundry and equipment—”
“Leave it.” Katharina spurted forward through the thick grass, stumbling in her haste.
A cry from Margaret froze her steps. She glanced back, and her heart plummeted at the sight of Margaret on the ground, tangled in the overturned washing stock, struggling to free herself.
“Hurry, Margaret!”
The men were running now too, closing the distance.
Katharina raced back and slipped down the bank. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. With shaking hands she shoved the bench off her friend and yanked her to her feet. “Hurry!”
But Margaret was twisted in the wet linens and tripped again.
Katharina clawed at her friend’s arm and dragged her forward. The pounding of her heart ricocheted through her head. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Be with us now.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The woodcutter’s greeting was followed by his pinching grip on Katharina’s wrist. “It’s not polite to leave without saying a proper greeting.”
He spun her, forcing her to relinquish her grip on Margaret.
“Uh-huh, Cal, not polite at all.”
The taller laborer hauled Margaret to her feet. In the struggle his broad straw hat fell off, revealing thin black strands of hair that didn’t fully cover his balding scalp.
Behind Katharina the woodcutter pushed closer. “I suggest you say ‘good day’ to Cal before he gets angry.”
Katharina twisted and caught a glimpse of the woodcutter’s puckered scar and gaping earlobe. She yanked hard, trying to free herself. “Let go this instant.”
He made a clicking noise with his tongue and the roof of his mouth. “I won’t be letting go until I get the payment I’ve been promised.”
He didn’t have to say anything for her to know who would be paying him. All she knew was that she had to escape. Now. Before it was too late. Her gaze darted around and landed on her discarded battledore. She turned on the woodcutter and began kicking and scratching.
He swore and backed away. His grip loosened for an instant.
It was the second she needed. She ripped free and lunged for the washing bat. Her fingers closed around it, and she swung it wildly, forcing the woodcutter to retreat.
“Cal’s got a knife, don’t you, Cal?” The woodcutter lifted his arms to protect his head. “And Cal won’t mind cutting up your friend’s pretty face with it, will you, Cal?”
Margaret cried out in pain.
At the sight of Cal pressing the tip of his knife against Margaret’s chin, Katharina froze.
A dot of blood dripped onto Cal’s hand, but his face was emotionless, as if Margaret were nothing more to him than an animal hide in need of tanning.
“Stop. Let her be.” Katharina threw down her battledore.
The woodcutter pounced on her and yanked her arms behind her back with such force that hot pain blinded her, and a cry slipped from her lips.
“What do you say, Cal? Every time my gal don’t cooperate, you put a slice in your gal’s face?”
Cal grunted.
The blood on Margaret’s chin glistened. Her friend stood absolutely still, her eyes scrunched closed, her face pinched.
“Put the knife away.” Katharina could hardly speak for the burning in her arms. “I’ll do whatever you say as long as you don’t hurt Margaret.”
The woodcutter chortled. “Now that’s a good girl. No need for anyone to get hurt if you cooperate.”
Cal lowered the knife.
Katharina exhaled. The drive to fight deflated. She couldn’t chance Margaret getting hurt.
She didn’t resist when the woodcutter tied her hands behind her back or when he shoved her past the townswomen, who watched silently without making a move to help. Did they dislike her and Margaret so much that they could stand by and let these men lead them away like sheep to the slaughter? Did they truly believe the runaway nuns should go back where they belonged?
The woodcutter pushed her along, up the grassy bank and over the bridge that led away from Wittenberg, and Cal followed behind with Margaret. The men directed them to a covered wagon concealed in a grove of willows. They made quick work of gagging them and binding their feet too. When they lifted the covering and shoved them into the wagon bed, Katharina’s heart sank at the sight of Margaret’s sister, Eva, already bound and gagged, curled into a ball with tears streaking her cheeks.
Margaret scooted over to her sister and tried to comfort her as best she could.
Katharina listened to the woodcutter argue with the driver, and their words confirmed her fear—the men were working for Abbot Baltazar. They were looking for one more, Greta, and the driver didn’t want to go until they found her. But the woodcutter insisted that she was gone, that the townswomen said she’d left Wittenberg weeks ago.
Eventually the wagon began to roll and jostle them mercilessly. Under the tarp the musty, damp odor of the wagon bed filled Katharina’s senses. The sun beat down on the tarp and baked them beneath. Over and over she chastised herself for failing to protect Margaret, for not running when they’d had the chance. Her mind jumped between Ave Marias, Our Father prayers, and efforts to plan their escape. And she tried not to think about what was in store for them at the end of their journey.
The endless bumping was torture, but it was nothing compared to the dryness that had overtaken her mouth and throat, made worse by the dirty cloth filling it. The increasing desperation in Margaret’s and Eva’s eyes told her they were suffering in the same way.
Her efforts to loosen the rope binding her wrists resulted in nothing but skin chafed raw. Finally she could only lie in utter exhaustion like her friends. Her mind screamed not to give up, but she grew too hot and weary to move.
Eventually the wagon lurched to a stop. She could hear the loosening of the tarp, and then sunshine fell across her and blinded her. She tried pushing herself up, but rough hands wrenched her forward, dragged her like a bag of barley, and tossed her to the side of the road.
The impact with the ground jolted her breath from her chest. But blessedly the men untied their gags and passed them a jug. Apparently, Abbot Baltazar wanted them alive. The only question was why. So that he could torture them to death himself?
The men returned them to the wagon and didn’t stop again until darkness settled. By then Katharina was so sore and tired and weak she could only lie listlessly next to Margaret and Eva on dried pine needles and moss and watch their captors as they ate and bedded down.
Their kidnappers had located a secluded grove, thickly wooded with spruce and cedar. They hadn’t bothered with a fire, and now the chill of the deepening night crept through the thick undergrowth and surrounded them.
She waited for even breathing that signaled the men were slumbering before she wriggled the binding on her hands. The skin on her wrists was already rubbed raw from her efforts in the wagon to loosen the rope, and the attempt was as useless now as it had been before.
With her gaze fixed on the motionless forms of the men half a dozen steps away, she pushed her h
ands into Margaret, hoping her friend would understand what she needed to do and would now have the strength they’d lacked in the wagon bed.
The tug of Margaret’s teeth on her rope told her that Margaret was more alert than she’d realized. Margaret struggled until Katharina’s wrists were hot and slick from her friend’s futile efforts. Finally Katharina sidled behind Margaret and tried her turn at using her teeth to untie the rope. She had no other plan. If they failed, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see another day.
At the snap of a twig behind them, Katharina tensed and pulled away from Margaret. But a large hand cupped her mouth and muffled her gasp.
The heat of the hand suffocated her. With a surge of fear, she jerked to break free.
A mouth pressed against her ear. “Hello, hissing Katzen.”
“Doctor Luther?” Her whisper was caught in the hollow of his hand.
“Yes, it is I, the barking hound.” His lips grazed her earlobe.
Her body melted with overwhelming relief. The tension of the day pooled in her chest and rose on the edge of a sob. For a long second the heat of his breath filled the hollow of her ear. His hand remained over her mouth. And she didn’t want to move; she wanted to stay safe in his hold.
Slowly he released her and reached for her hands. His knife sawed into the rope, pressing the binding into her skin. He worked quickly, and in only a moment her hands were free, and the cool night air bathed her raw skin.
He moved to her feet and tugged at the rope with his blade. His black cloak hid him, turning him into an apparition. Several other dark figures crouched nearby, and she could hear the slicing of their blades against Eva’s and Margaret’s bindings.
The tightness around her feet fell away. Before she could push herself up, Doctor Luther clutched her and then crushed her against his body, wrapping his arms around her.
She buried her face in his cloak and took a deep, shuddering breath. The solidness of his chest and the strength of his grip surrounded her like the walls of a fortress. The fear of Abbot Baltazar and the horror of her capture faded into the distance.