by Jody Hedlund
Melanchthon’s hand on his arm stopped him. “They’ve destroyed the relic boxes.” His friend held up a handful of bones.
Through the fading light Luther could see the battered chests, their contents strewn, jars broken, shrouds ripped, bones crushed. Marienthron had been home to perhaps four hundred relics: particles of Christ’s table, cross, crib, robe, blood, the stone and soil where he had wept, along with a various assortment of bones from apostles and saints.
“There are enough pieces of the true cross here to build a house.” He fingered a rough plank in disgust. It was all rubbish as far as he was concerned; none of it had enough power to save a gnat. Such relics might be useless and worthy of destruction, but he could support neither the iconoclasm nor the use of unrestrained strength in rebellion. There were more peaceful methods of fighting a battle, and he’d become the master of their use.
“Doctor Luther, over there.” One of the men who had joined them in Torgau pointed to a cage swinging from a tall elm in the middle of the cloister yard. Despite the growing darkness, the sight was gruesome. Inside sat the mutilated body of a priest, hands and feet cut off, his corpse left to rot. A single peasant shoe hung from the cage by its long leather strip.
Luther could only shake his head in frustration. Why wouldn’t the Bundschuh listen to his admonitions? He knew the church had mistreated them, had caused them untold pain over the years. But such vindication wouldn’t solve the problems.
He picked his way around the debris and entered the cloister building. The inside was as ransacked as the outside. He stopped to peer into each room that he passed. The peasants had overturned and smashed tables and benches in the refectory, broken the expensive glass windows in the common rooms, and shredded the sheets and sliced the pallets in the dormitory.
Anger swirled through his gut. The peasants might believe they were on a holy mission, but they were doing the work of the devil. He could explain it no other way.
“Kate?” His voice echoed in the unlit, narrow hallway.
“Here.”
He followed her voice into one of the small cells.
She was kneeling before an older nun and wrapping a strip of sheet around the woman’s head. In the deep shadows of the room, he could distinguish a spot of bright blood already seeping through the linen. Katharina’s face was pale, but she worked deftly to tear another strip of linen with her teeth. Her hands shook as she fumbled to wrap the piece of cloth around the woman’s head.
Luther knelt next to her, the blood-slickened floor dampening his hose. “Is she your Aunt Lena?”
Katharina nodded without pausing in her work. “She’s alive, but barely.”
The woman’s face was ashen except for the purple welt that had swollen closed one eye. The other eye gazed into an unseen oblivion. Her habit was ripped past her knees giving him a glimpse of dark blood smeared up her legs onto her thighs.
Nausea gurgled in his stomach and rose into his throat. The peasant men were doing nothing more than satisfying their own lusts in the name of revolution. What did raping nuns have to do with gaining the freedoms they desired?
He swallowed several times and then took a deep breath. “Where are the others?”
“Sisters Maltiz and Pock are in the next cell.” Her voice cracked. “They’re dead.”
“And the rest of them?”
“I don’t know.” She finally turned to look at him. The horror in her eyes made him want to pull her into his arms and hold her and shield her from the nightmare.
“How could anyone do this?” she whispered.
He could only shake his head and thank God from the depths of his heart that Katharina hadn’t been there when the peasants had attacked.
Katharina had no choice. She would stay in Grimma even though everything within her screamed in protest at the thought of living on the doorstep of Marienthron. She couldn’t forsake Aunt Lena, not now, not after all that had happened to her.
Katharina smoothed a hand across the older woman’s cheek. Aunt Lena hadn’t spoken a word in the three days since they’d found her. Katharina had spent every waking moment by the woman’s side, doctoring her wounds, revolted anew at the evidences of abuse the woman had suffered.
“I’ve decided not to return to Wittenberg—not until you’re better,” she whispered.
Aunt Lena stared at the ceiling, unblinking, unmoving.
Katharina touched the pulse in her aunt’s neck. A steady thump against her fingers reassured her of life—a small flicker of something in the battered body. She straightened the bandage covering the woman’s scalp and the deep cut, which she’d sewn closed. If only the gash had been the worst of her injuries.
“Sister Katharina?” Magdalene von Staupitz’s gentle voice came from the doorway. “Doctor Luther is waiting for you.”
Katharina reached for Aunt Lena’s hand and hesitated.
“I’ll stay with her for a little while.” Sister Magdalene’s voice was a whisper as she stepped to the bedside.
Her aunt’s hand was cold and heavy. Katharina pressed it and hoped for the merest of responses.
There was nothing.
“Go now. You need a break.” Sister Magdalene helped Katharina to her feet and turned her toward the door.
Weary from lack of sleep, Katharina stumbled into the main room of the small house.
“How is she?” Doctor Luther’s dark gaze searched her face. He stood near the door and stooped under the low ceiling. He’d spent the past days meeting with the leaders of Grimma, making arrangements for the care of Aunt Lena. He’d secured the house, which had recently belonged to an Augustinian monastery but had been deserted when the monks had abandoned their vows. Now Doctor Luther had gained permission for Aunt Lena to stay there with the promise that Sister Magdalene would start a school for the girls of Grimma.
Sister Magdalene hadn’t spoken a negative word about her stay with her brother Gunther at his Motterwitz estate, but the former nun had been more than eager to accept Luther’s offer not only to teach the girls of Grimma but also to help care for Aunt Lena.
Katharina rubbed a hand across her eyes. When she had managed to sleep during the past nights, her dreams had always turned into nightmares of Aunt Lena. “She’s still not speaking.”
Luther’s expression was sober and his eyes deep wells of sadness. “Then you still insist on staying?”
She nodded. Fear prickled through her again, as it did every time she thought of being close to Marienthron and to Abbot Baltazar. In her secret thoughts she was ashamed for wishing Abbot Baltazar had been in the cage hanging from the oak instead of one of the priests who’d resided in the Predigerhaus. But the abbot had been safely away at his primary residence, the Cistercian Pforta monastery.
She’d heard that he’d returned to the abbey after the attack and had begun the arduous task of restoring it for all the nuns who remained, the sisters who’d been able to hide and avoid attack. The peasant uprising hadn’t deterred him from his duties. Instead, rumors had reached her ears that he was more zealous than before.
But she’d decided if Sister Magdalene was brave enough to live within the shadows of their former abbey, then she could do the same, at least until Aunt Lena was well enough to move.
“I must stay,” Katharina said, rubbing her hands across her arms to bring warmth to her limbs. The hearth fire across the room barely flickered with light, much less with heat. “I cannot leave her in this condition.”
Doctor Luther’s weary expression spoke more than words could. He knew, as she did, that Aunt Lena and Sisters Maltiz and Pock had sacrificed themselves to protect the other women. If the three hadn’t hidden the younger sisters in the cloister prison cells, and if they hadn’t taken the brunt of the abuses themselves, the others would have fared far worse.
“I’ll pray for her healing both in body and in mind.” His voice was low. “And I’ll pray for you, Katharina, that the Lord will keep you safe.”
“And I shall hope tha
t God answers your prayers, Doctor Luther.” She was grateful for all his help over the past days. Not only had he spoken out against the violence, but he’d also provided for Aunt Lena, rallied the support of the townspeople for her and Sister Magdalene, and gathered assurances that the men in the area would watch over them. If anyone deserved God’s mercy, Doctor Luther did.
“Will you promise to stay close to the house?” he asked.
“I’ll do my best. And you must remember to write to the elector about freeing Thomas.”
“It’s as good as done the moment I arrive in Torgau.”
She wanted to instruct him to watch for Jerome’s return to Wittenberg. Should he arrive while she was away, she needed someone to deliver the news of her whereabouts.
But his eyes had grown blacker and were regarding her in a way that seared her insides like a hot tonic. Without breaking his gaze, he stepped away from the door and crossed the bare room toward her. Each of his heavy footsteps escalated her heartbeat.
When he stood before her, his body exuded a strength and warmth that made her heart race too fast. He was near enough that she could see the shadows under his eyes and the layer of scruff over his cheek and chin.
“Katharina.” His whisper was tinged with something she couldn’t identify. When his attention flickered to her lips, her breath caught in her throat. Did he want to kiss her? Surely he wouldn’t.
“Will you promise to return to Wittenberg?” He lifted ink-stained fingers to her face.
“I’ll try.”
His fingers skimmed her cheek.
Her legs quivered.
“You won’t return to a wasted life in the abbey, will you?”
“Of course not.” Her voice was only a whisper now too.
A glimmer in his eyes illuminated the deep darkness and gave her a glimpse of the power of his desire.
He would kiss her, and she had no wish to resist him. Quite the opposite. She had a sudden, sharp need for him that tightened her entire body.
As his head lowered toward hers, her stomach flipped, and she leaned forward in anticipation.
“Martinus, are you ready?” From the doorway, Melanchthon’s question cut through the room.
Katharina stumbled a step back and slipped her hands over her warm cheeks.
“I’m saying good-bye to Katharina.” Doctor Luther didn’t turn to look at his friend.
“We need to be on our way.” Melanchthon blew into his hands and then rubbed them together.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Doctor Luther didn’t budge. His attention was focused upon her with an intensity that burned into her and made her want to forget all reason. “Can I have one moment of privacy? Is that too much to ask?”
Melanchthon cleared his throat, and his slender red face seemed to grow redder until it nearly matched the unruly hair that had wrestled loose from his winter cap. “I don’t want to be the one to remind you that Katharina von Bora is promised to Baumgartner. And it’s in everybody’s best interest to leave it that way.”
Doctor Luther leaned closer, the warmth of his breath taunting her. His eyes seemed to plead with her to dispute Melanchthon.
For an instant she longed to make Doctor Luther happy, to keep the peace, to hold on to his pleasure. Past experience had taught her that any mention of Jerome would only gain his scorn.
But her hesitancy was all it took for his eyes to fill with disappointment. “Then it really is time for me to say good-bye.”
How could she respond? She didn’t want to anger Doctor Luther, and yet she had promised herself to Jerome.
“You’re right, Philipp.” Doctor Luther stepped away, taking his warmth and solidness, leaving her cold again. “I need to accept the facts.”
She braced herself for Doctor Luther’s usual onslaught of derision toward Jerome. And she desperately wished that they didn’t need to talk about him, that they could ignore everything and everyone else for a moment.
He stared at her, sadness deepening the lines of his face. “Good-bye, Kate.” The words sounded permanent.
“I’m sure I shall return to Wittenberg soon.”
“No, this must be good-bye.” After a final search of her face, he turned. The cloak covering his habit swished decisively as he strode to the door.
She started after him, then stopped. What else could she say?
Without a glance back he pushed open the door and stepped outside.
Melanchthon nodded at her. Although his eyes were kind, something in them warned her not to come after Doctor Luther but to accept the fate that had been handed to both of them. It was no secret that some of Doctor Luther’s advisors cautioned him against marriage. Apparently Melanchthon was one of those.
She swallowed hard and pushed down an ache in her throat. She couldn’t begin to make sense of the sudden feeling of rejection that swept through her.
Melanchthon turned to go.
“Wait.” She stepped toward him.
With his hand on the door, he paused and looked back at her expectantly.
“When Jerome returns to Wittenberg, I must have someone explain to him my absence and where he can find me.”
He nodded almost too eagerly. “Have no fear, my lady. I shall share the tidings with him the moment he arrives.”
As he left, Katharina stared at the door. A sense of abandonment spread like a heavy coverlet over her face and suffocated her. She could hear a five-year-old girl crying and begging. For an instant she could feel the scratch of the blanket mingling with heat and tears and could breathe the odor of dust and horseflesh. Why hadn’t her father listened to her pleas? Why had he thrown a covering over her head and ignored her?
She took a deep breath and exhaled the memories. “I shall marry Jerome.” Her voice wavered in the silent room. He would come for her, and when he did, she would finally have a family again, and this time she wouldn’t let anyone take it away from her.
Katharina had begun to wonder if Aunt Lena would ever speak again. As the winter days thawed into spring, her aunt’s physical wounds healed. Only puckered scars on her back remained. They were evidence of an earlier beating, likely received for having aided their escape from the convent, and Katharina blamed herself every time she smoothed salve over her aunt’s skin.
The emotional wounds, however, went deeper. Aunt Lena was lost in another world in the far recesses of her mind. Katharina could only surmise that the shock of what her aunt had seen and experienced had killed her spirit and taken away her will to live.
Day after day Katharina labored to pull her aunt back to the world of the living, but her despair festered when she could find no concoction, no tincture, no salve—nothing to help. The only comfort Aunt Lena seemed to draw was from a dagger Doctor Luther had left with Sister Magdalene. Her aunt carried the weapon with her at all times and even slept with it at her side.
Katharina stayed within the confines of the house and yard, the busy town of Grimma providing a safe wall of protection around her. On the rare days when the sunshine poured warmth over the greening grass and blossoming pear trees, Katharina couldn’t stop herself from wandering a bit farther into the deserted convent gardens, which hadn’t been pruned recently.
Sister Magdalene always fussed about Katharina straying too far from the main house, but the months of peaceful living had lessened her fears. She knew she was secure as long as she stayed within the confines of the town. Besides, she was sure the abbot had more important things to worry about than her.
The raised herb beds were completely safe, and she’d gone there numerous times in recent days with the excuse of gathering ingredients for the syrups, infusions, and salves she administered to Aunt Lena. It would be a month or more before many plants were in full bloom, but she’d located flowering cowslip and bistort.
She knelt next to the cowslip. The flowers dangled like golden keys, and she pressed her nose against them to take in their sweet smell. Had it really been almost a year since she’d made her escape fro
m Marienthron and left this area?
A lot had happened in that year…except for the one thing she’d wanted most. She sighed and sat back on her heels. By now Jerome would have received her letters alerting him to her whereabouts. And it was spring; he could come for her if he truly wanted to. She’d begun to quietly resign herself to the fact that he didn’t want her anymore. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted her in the first place except to use her.
In recent days she’d found herself thinking more of Doctor Luther, of his dark eyes and the way he’d leaned into her and almost kissed her before he’d left. But he’d been silent too. Although she knew nothing could develop between them, she couldn’t deny that she missed him more than she did Jerome.
With a startling flap of wings, a pair of cardinals and a dozen other birds disappeared into the expanse of blue sky.
Katharina silenced her thoughts and listened. In the distance she could hear the giggling of the girls Magdalene had assembled to teach. Their tinkling laughter wafted on the warm breeze.
A crunch of footsteps sounded in the dry leaves and twigs that littered the garden behind her. She’d thought she was alone, had expected the privacy she’d had every other time she’d come to the herb beds.
“There she is, Cal, just like Abbot Baltazar told us, sitting in the garden.”
At the mention of the abbot, her pulse began to pound a wild and unsteady rhythm. She jumped up but her legs tangled in her skirt, causing her to lose her balance. A glance over her shoulder at a short man with a missing earlobe and scar along his jaw told her she was in desperate trouble.
Ave Maria. She stumbled forward. If she could outrun the men to the gate, she might have a chance. She jerked her skirt free of her legs and started to sprint. Our Father in heaven. But she made it only a few steps when a crushing blow to her back sent her sprawling forward. Her body slammed into the ground, and the impact knocked the breath out of her.
One of the convent laborers stepped on Katharina and pinned her in place. He twisted her hands behind her back and then jerked her upward to her feet. The pain ripped through her arms, and she cried out.