Luther and Katharina

by Jody Hedlund

  His father responded with a deep sigh of his own. And for a long moment, the chatter and laughter of the other patrons overtook their silent table. Luther’s men busied themselves with taking sips of their beer, seeming to want to ignore the awkward conversation between father and son.

  “I’ll go see Mother now,” Luther said, pushing back, needing to put an end to the strained moment. His childhood home was down the main street, a short escape away.

  “Good idea,” his father chimed in. “She’ll have heard the rumors too and will be wanting to make sure you’re unharmed.” Luther said his good-byes to the men, knowing the conversations about the count and the unrest among the peasants were far from over. But for now, at this moment, he needed to put distance between himself and the disappointment he was to his father. He stepped away from the table and, with Jonas on his heels, squeezed through the crowd.

  “I don’t know why you won’t just tell him to shut up,” Jonas grumbled when they were out on the narrow street. Tall buildings rose up, crammed close together, casting shadows on the street.

  “If just once he could tell me one thing I’ve done right.” Luther’s throat tightened with the longing of wanting to please his father but never quite being able to do it.

  “I think you’ll shut him up in only one way,” Jonas said as they dodged hens and dogs and picked their way through the dregs of garbage that housewives had dumped into the street. In the dampness of the day, the stench filled his nostrils. “Get married.”

  “Such a solution might temporarily placate my father, but it would set a thousand other malicious tongues to work.”

  Jonas snorted. “What worse things could they possibly say about you?”

  “You know my position on the matter. And I won’t change it, even to please my father.”

  “The Schonfeld sisters still need husbands. You must admit the tall one is rather taken with you.”

  He wouldn’t admit anything. He wasn’t in a position to pay attention to the whims of the nuns he was rescuing.

  Jonas quirked an eyebrow. “Or perhaps you already have your heart set on Katharina von Bora?”

  “Absolutely not!” He asserted his denial too loudly and startled the urchins nearby who were setting rattraps. Luther’s mind suddenly filled with a picture of Katharina’s face, the concern that had strained her delicate features as she’d tended his wound that day in Cranach’s workshop. He could almost feel the gentleness of her fingers on his gash, and it brought a keen longing for more of her.

  Jonas’s brow shot higher, and a grin played at his lips.

  Luther fought for control over the surge of emotions at the mention of Katharina’s name. “She’s a hissing Katzen.” Again his tone was too strong.

  What about Katharina had the power to blow through him like a thunderstorm? He took a deep breath and forced himself to respond calmly. “If I were taking a wife—if—Katharina would be the very last woman I would want.”

  This time Jonas gave an all-out hearty laugh, as though he’d never found anything more ludicrous.

  “I’m serious.” Luther stopped and sized up the brick facade in front of him that rose three stories. His childhood home hadn’t changed over the years. “Katharina von Bora isn’t the woman for me.”

  Besides, she was practically married to that weaseling, womanizing Baumgartner. If the rumors were true, then she was Baumgartner’s in all but name. Irrational but familiar anger flashed through him at the picture of Baumgartner’s hands on Katharina.

  “She belongs to Baumgartner.” He stepped to the door and thumped it with his fist. “He’ll marry her. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Katharina absently slapped at the flea on the back of her hand. The tiny pests were everywhere now that she had beaten them out of the cushions and woven mats. Her hope was that the fresh alder leaves she’d strewn about the room would catch most of the vermin. She’d kill the rest when they landed on the white wool blanket she’d spread over the bed.

  She detested the job but was careful to hide her feelings from Elsa. The mayor’s wife derived unnatural pleasure from giving her the most degrading work. Katharina knew Elsa did it out of jealousy. The woman was spitefully envious of the fact that Jerome cared about her and planned to marry her.

  At least she hoped he still planned to marry her. He’d left Wittenberg without saying good-bye. Although it had been nigh onto a month since his departure, Katharina could think of nothing else.

  She swatted the dark specks dotting the white blanket.

  If only she’d gone to meet him as she’d promised. If only she hadn’t made all the excuses after stitching up Doctor Luther that afternoon. She’d told herself that she was too late, that the bells had long past rung Terce. She’d convinced herself he wouldn’t wait in the grove but instead would find her and tell her everything would work out anyway. After all, he’d promised to marry her whether she went through with the consummation or not. He’d promised he would marry her the very first day he returned to Wittenberg.

  If only he would come soon. With a sigh she reached for the twig broom. She didn’t want to think about the possibility that he might be angry with her, that he might be ignoring her.

  She stretched the broom under the bed and reached for lingering dust and fleas. In the small chamber she shared with another serving girl, she’d assembled two trenchers slimed with glue. At night she lit a candle in the midst of each trencher, which attracted fleas to the sticky mixture, trapping and killing them. She had learned the flea-catching method and how to make the glue at the abbey. She’d hesitated about sharing her knowledge with Elsa, although part of her knew she ought to show the woman charity whether or not she deserved it.

  She reached farther under the bed and aimed for the far corners, capturing the elusive contents: balls of dust, straw, and a crumpled sheet of paper. For a moment she stared at the wadded paper. The right course of action was to incinerate it without meddling. She picked it up and blew the dust from it. No one would know if she took a peek. With a quick glance around, she folded back the layers and straightened it.

  Her heart slammed to a stop at the sight of her own handwriting. She scanned the first line. Dearest Jerome…

  She stared, hot fingers of anger gripping her. It was one of the letters she’d written to Jerome. And she could think of only one way it could have gotten under Elsa’s bed. The woman had intercepted it.

  “She’s despicable. Absolutely despicable.” Katharina skimmed over the words—an outpouring of her heart, the declaration of her affection for Jerome and her desire to be his wife. She didn’t doubt Elsa had laughed over every word.

  And just how many of her letters had Elsa stolen? What if Jerome hadn’t received any of them? What if he thought she didn’t care about him anymore? How else could he interpret her silence, especially after she’d neglected to meet him in the quince grove? He would think she didn’t care about marrying him. He would surely feel betrayed and abandoned. And if he hadn’t been angry before, he would be now.

  Fleas forgotten, she searched the rest of the bedchamber for any other letters but found none. Finally, with the wrinkled letter in hand, she stomped through the house until she located Elsa in the kitchen snapping instructions at the servants who were in the midst of preparing the midday meal. Steam rose from a large kettle over the massive hearth and along with it the smell of parsnips and turnips.

  “How could you?” Katharina stormed around the baskets of bread and fish and cheese recently purchased at the market. She halted before the mayor’s wife and waved the paper in her face.

  Recognition lit the woman’s eyes.

  “You stole my letter.” Katharina struggled to keep her voice calm.

  “I was merely protecting Jerome.”

  “Protecting him from what?”

  She sniffed and lifted her chin. “You’re not an appropriate match for a man of Jerome’s status.”

  “I’m his equal if not his better.” Katharina’s tone turned
icy. “However, I hardly think you are in a position to know about status.”

  Elsa’s gaze lowered to Katharina’s gown and lingered over the stains and the frayed edge. Katharina fought the urge to bunch up her skirt and try to hide the worn linen. “Jerome’s parents will not want a penniless bride for their only son, especially one as old as you.”

  “You’ve no right to interfere.”

  “Whether I like it or not, you’re my servant. I have every right to do with you as I see fit.”

  The frustration that had been growing over the weeks suddenly unleashed itself. Katharina knew she couldn’t abide living with this woman another day, another hour, another minute. She forced a thin smile. “I’m no more your servant than you are my mistress. One cannot change the natural order of life by wishful thinking.”

  With her mind made up, she didn’t linger. She went directly to her room, packed her meager belongings, and walked out of the Reichenbachs’ house.

  Since Doctor Luther had erred in placing her with the Reichenbachs, she would require him to undo his mistake. He would have to find her another place to live. She walked the short distance to the Black Cloister and was disappointed when Wolfgang informed her that Doctor Luther was gone from Wittenberg. She failed to persuade the servant to tell her where Doctor Luther was or when he might return. Instead, Wolfgang instructed her to go back to the Reichenbachs’ and obey Doctor Luther’s orders regarding her stay there.

  Katharina decided she would rather live at the Black Cloister in abject poverty and under Wolfgang’s constant suspicion than subject herself to more of Elsa’s disdain or meddling.

  When Wolfgang closed the door on her, she wandered down Collegienstrasse. The anger that had taken hold of her earlier seeped out and left a hole in its place. She had no one—no family, no husband, no one who would care if she was homeless. Her father, her brothers, her sister—none of them had responded to Doctor Luther’s letter. Of course they lived in Duke George’s territory, and she wouldn’t be safe if she went to live with them.

  But even if she couldn’t live with them, they could still make an effort to contact her, perhaps just to visit. Why wouldn’t they want to see her after all these years? Weren’t they curious about her? Didn’t they wonder what kind of woman she’d become?

  In her mind her father was rejecting her all over again, and this time the rejection had a finality to it that cut deep. Hadn’t it been enough that he’d given away his own flesh and blood—the sweet, innocent five-year-old girl who’d wanted nothing more than for him to wrap her safely in his arms?

  O my God, relying on Thy almighty power and infinite mercy and promises, I hope to obtain pardon for my sins, the help of Thy grace, and life everlasting…

  She’d once prayed the traditional prayers with such confidence. But their power seemed to be slipping from her fingers much the way her status was. No matter how hard she clung to all that was once important, she was losing her grasp.

  Her pace slowed as she turned onto Schlossstrasse and neared the front of the Cranach residence. The Act of Hope prayer trailed into nothingness, unable to give her the hope she desperately needed at the moment.

  She trailed her fingers across the rough bricked arch around the doorway. The urge to voice her deepest needs pulsed through her. What if she talked to God without a traditional prayer, the way the pastor did each Sunday? Would God hear her?

  Part of her wanted to try, wanted to believe she could shed the old customs and beliefs just as she’d shed her nun’s garments. But if she did, what would she have left?

  Katharina stepped slowly over the broken stone pathway that led to the monastery garden. Tall weeds straggled through the cracks and climbed the crumbling wall of the Black Cloister’s unfinished chapel.

  Wolfgang’s glare from the refectory burned into her back. When she turned and looked at the narrow window, he ducked away. Only a dilapidated building stared back at her. With its peeling paint, broken shutters, and missing roof tiles, it looked just as abandoned on the outside as it was on the inside.

  Wolfgang was better than a watchdog.

  She turned her attention back to the garden, to the unpruned apple and pear trees, the withered and wormy fruit hanging from gnarled branches. If only Wolfgang would take care of the monastery as well as he did his master.

  He hadn’t wanted to tell her where Doctor Luther was working, but since this time Doctor Luther had summoned her to the monastery, Wolfgang had eventually pointed her in the direction of the garden.

  Doctor Luther wouldn’t have called for her unless he was displeased with the arrangements she’d made for herself. After two weeks of living with Margaret and Eva at the Cranachs’, she’d managed to convince Master Cranach and Barbara that she could be an asset to them, especially in the herb garden and apothecary shop. They hadn’t sent her away—yet.

  Now that Doctor Luther had finally returned to Wittenberg, would he ruin her plans and force her to return to the Reichenbachs’?

  She steeled herself as she wound through the raised herb beds until she reached the level plot used for growing vegetables. She wouldn’t go back. And she’d make sure he understood that.

  “Doctor Luther?” She peered past the rows of pole beans.

  “Here,” came his muffled reply.

  She tiptoed through the overgrown vines until she came upon Doctor Luther kneeling in the middle of the cabbage patch. The basket next to him was half-filled with dirt-covered carrots, onions, and turnips.

  “Herr Doctor?” She studied his wide shoulders and the strong line of his jaw and couldn’t stop the leap of her pulse at the sight of him again. “You’re praying?”

  He gave her a weak smile, his face leaner than it had been the last time she’d seen him. “I’m composing: No! No! Their ashes shall not die! But borne to every land, where’er their sainted dust shall fall, up springs a holy band.” Perspiration covered his brow, and he held a bouquet of crushed violets.

  “You should take your composing to the shade, Herr Doctor.”

  He held up his finger in an urgent motion that told her not to speak until he finished. “Though Satan by his might may kill, and stop their powerful voice, they triumph o’er him in their death, and still in Christ rejoice.”

  He pressed the violets to his nose and sucked in a breath. She waited a moment, unsure if he would continue. Then his gaze collided with hers. The anguish in his eyes turned them to bottomless black. “The song is in memory of the two boys burned to death in Brussels.”

  She had an urge to smooth her hand over his cheek to bring his tortured heart some small measure of comfort, to help ease his guilt. “Your song will be a powerful testimony to their death.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, giving her a glimpse of the burdens a man in his position carried day after day. The balance of his own life was so precarious, but now so too were the lives of his followers.

  “I’m always astonished,” he said, “that the songs and praise intended to glorify God have the dual role of benefiting us, of lifting us out of our mire and muck to renew our spirits.”

  She didn’t know much about singing except Latin chants in the prescribed format within the traditional liturgical ceremonies. “I have to admit, the common singing of the psalms in your church services has been rather unusual.”

  “The precious gift of music has been given to man alone so we might remind ourselves that God has created us for the express purpose of praising and extolling Him. Would that we all could use our voices in joyful songs rather than being content with only the chants.”

  Her heart thumped harder in resonance to his words and the wisdom they contained. And yet how could she deny the validity and importance of the sacred Latin texts that had been chanted for centuries?

  “The riches of music are so excellent and so precious that, next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world.” In spite of his wilted condition in the sun, his voice had grown stronger with
the power of his conviction.

  “You’re a persuasive man, Herr Doctor,” she admitted. She’d fallen under the power of his words from the teachings she’d read while at Marienthron, and she could see now why so many others were embracing his words. “I’m still struggling to know how far to allow myself to be persuaded by your teachings. Certainly not everything about the church needs reforming.”

  “Correct,” he said. “But we must reclaim true worship, which comes when we hear the Word of God and then unite as a congregation in thanksgiving.”

  She could imagine him having heated discussions about such matters with his friends and felt a small thrill that he’d taken time to discuss the issue with her, as though her opinions were worthwhile. But as much as she longed to continue the discourse, she knew she couldn’t avoid the real reason he’d requested her to come.

  “Did you see Greta during your travels?” she asked. After his trip to Mansfeld earlier in the summer, he’d informed her about the peasant camp and the young woman he’d spotted there, a young woman he believed was Greta.

  “I’m sorry, Katharina.” He shook his head reluctantly. “I didn’t see her anywhere. The peasants have had to stay on the move recently to avoid capture.”

  Her fingers brushed against a prickly cucumber vine that had snaked through the fencing. The sting moved from her fingers to her chest. “I don’t understand why she left. At least with me she was safe and comfortable.”

  Doctor Luther’s brow rose. “Was she really safe?”

  His insinuation poked the tender flesh of her heart. She’d always thought that Greta had been lucky to be her servant. The girl had been plucked from a life of drudgery and poverty and illness. She’d had a relatively easy life in the convent compared to what life was like for most young peasant girls. But after discovering what had happened with the abbot, Katharina wondered if she had been too presumptuous. Perhaps Greta would have had a better life elsewhere.

  When Doctor Luther pressed the wilted violets against his face again, she silently rebuked herself for not attending to him when he was clearly tired from his travels and work. “Come, Doctor Luther. You’re in need of respite and a drink.” She reached for the basket of vegetables. “I shall fix you a soothing drink.”