by Jody Hedlund
“Katharina!”
She peered down the grassy lane and spotted Barbara Cranach waving at her, half running, half walking, her linen head covering flapping behind her like a goose in pursuit.
“Katharina,” Barbara called breathlessly again, “gather the servants.”
The urgency in the woman’s voice propelled Katharina to her feet. She shook her skirt, dislodging dirt that clung to the linen.
“You must come back inside the town walls.” Barbara’s round face was ruddy from her brisk pace and lined with more tired grooves than usual. “It isn’t safe for anyone to be outside.”
Katharina glanced to the orchard at the far end of the plot, to the pig market down the road, then to the rolling fields beyond and the laborers hard at work.
Barbara stopped at the cross path, breathing hard and holding her side. “The peasants are revolting.”
A breeze lifted a loose strand of hair and sent a chill down Katharina’s spine. The wind brought with it the moist manure odor of the swine farm.
Katharina returned her attention to the fields, to the peasants weeding the recently planted barley and wheat and others plowing the fallow field to prepare it for the next season of planting. Their backs were bent every time she looked at them; they showed no sign of revolt.
Barbara’s eyes were wide with fear. “They appear peaceful, but at any moment they may strike out at us.”
“Why would they do that?” Katharina watched the men and the few women. Like her, they’d worked hard all week; they’d barely given her a glance. “We’ve done nothing to them.” The memory of Aunt Lena’s torn habit and the splotches of blood on her thighs haunted her. What had Aunt Lena done to deserve their brutality? What had Sisters Maltiz and Pock done to deserve death?
“We just received news”—Barbara lowered her voice—“of the horrible, horrible death of Count Louis of Helfenstein in Weinsberg.”
The name didn’t sound familiar to Katharina, but she swallowed her mounting fear and nodded for her friend to continue.
“The peasants besieged his castle and captured him and seventy of his men, his wife, and infant son. They formed a gauntlet with their pikes, played their fifes gaily, and pushed the count and those with him to their deaths.”
Katharina couldn’t hold back the question that begged for release. “The wife and son too?”
Barbara shook her head. “They spared her since she is the natural daughter of Emperor Maximilian. But they refused to listen to her pleas of mercy for her husband and instead forced her to watch them butcher him. Then they threw her on the back of a dung cart with her wounded infant.”
Katharina shuddered at the image of that poor woman having to witness such brutality.
“The peasants are out of control.” Barbara’s shaking fingers grasped Katharina’s. “I’m afraid for you out here by yourself. Come back to the safety of town.”
“But the garden. I cannot desert it now…”
Barbara tugged her. “The peasants are savages, Liebchen. There’s no telling what they’ll do next.”
Savages? Some, perhaps. But was it fair to assume they all were? What about Greta and Thomas? She hadn’t seen them since the day she’d escaped from Abbot Baltazar. She didn’t know where they’d gone or even if they were still alive. But she couldn’t ever think of them as savages.
Abbot Baltazar deserved the title of savage more than anyone else she knew. Whenever she thought of the way he’d abused Greta and likely many other women, she could understand Thomas’s rage and the anger of all the others who’d been unjustly treated by those who’d been appointed by God to rule them kindly.
The abbot had failed. She’d failed. So many others had as well. But it didn’t justify what the peasants had done to Count Louis of Helfenstein. Or what they’d done to Marienthron and Aunt Lena.
The nobility had grown too proud. She, Katharina von Bora, had grown too proud. And somehow things must change. She must change.
When she’d escaped from the convent, she’d thought that would be enough of a transformation. But she realized now that it had only been the start.
“Slow down, Martinus,” Melanchthon said, jogging alongside Luther to keep up.
Luther’s stride lengthened, and he didn’t pause to return the greetings of those he passed on the street. He scowled through the summer sunshine, blinded by the fury that had possessed him since the courier had arrived at the Black Cloister.
“The news of the battle is harsh,” Melanchthon said, his breath coming in gasps. “I realize that. But there’s nothing we can do about it now.”
“Don’t tell me there’s nothing I can do! I’ll do something even if it kills me.” Luther’s blood boiled through him, scorching his very soul.
“Let’s take some time to cool off first.” Melanchthon’s footsteps slapped against the stones of the street.
“I wish I’d never written the letter in the first place!” Luther’s roar made the women ahead of him pull aside in fright. He knew he ought to explain that he was not a madman, but he would only frighten them more with his angry ranting about how both prince and peasant looked to him as the cause and the solution to the problems.
“I told you the wording was too harsh against the peasants,” Luther said through clenched teeth. “But everyone agreed it was necessary.”
He’d titled his latest letter “Against the Murderous, Thieving Hordes of Peasants.” He’d written it shortly after returning home from his trip through Thuringia. He’d known he needed to speak out against the rebellion. It had become all too clear after his tour through Thuringia that the peasants wouldn’t listen to reason, that they wouldn’t stop their senseless rampages unless forced at the point of a sword. Even though he hated the use of physical force, in his letter he’d told the princes to stop the peasants, with violence if necessary.
But he hadn’t planned on the princes butchering them.
“I’ll make sure Cranach stops printing the letter!” Luther roared. “Today. And I’ll write another, telling the princes what fools they are.”
They crossed Marktplatz and hurried past the vendors in the market square, past the tubs of eggs and butter, past baskets of beets and cabbage and onions, past wagonloads of goods brought in from the countryside for sale. The strong odor of salted fish mingled with the yeast of fresh-baked bread. The clamor of voices, the squawking of hens, and the squeals of children at play filled the morning air.
Luther ducked his head in shame. Most of the vendors were peasants. They would have heard the news of the battles too—thousands of peasants massacred, chained, and beheaded. And they would blame him as surely as he blamed himself. If only he could slip past the market without their noticing him.
He was sure they hated him now. After being their champion for so long, he’d failed them. He forced himself to move faster until he was nearly running. He couldn’t face them.
“I should have known this would happen if I threw in my lot with the princes.” He stumbled over a crack in the stone street and caught himself. “They’re a bunch of idiots.”
“Idiots that we need if we want the reforms to succeed.”
Luther shook his head. “Ach!”
When they reached the gate of the Cranach home, Luther barged through.
“Cranach, stop your presses!”
He strode across the bustling courtyard to the ground-floor room Cranach used as his printing shop. Without knocking he pushed open the door. “Don’t print any more of the pamphlets!” His voice boomed against the walls.
The typesetter at his low bench jumped up and bumped the tray of letters on the desk before him. The tray crashed to the floor, spilling his hours of labor into a scattered mess.
The room grew silent.
Cranach rose from his bench, a half-bound book lying on the table in front of him. Concern filled his eyes, and he raised questioning brows at Melanchthon, who’d entered and was bent over trying to catch his breath.
Luther cross
ed the room and stopped in front of a string of wet papers hanging to dry. He reached for one and ripped it down.
“That isn’t one of yours,” Cranach said calmly. “It’s Melanchthon’s.”
Ink from the paper smeared Luther’s hand. “I’m sure Melanchthon doesn’t have anything good to say either.” He balled the paper into a wad and threw it on the floor.
“Why don’t you settle down and tell me what’s going on.” Cranach started toward him, smoothing a hand down his forked beard.
“I can’t settle down! Not when five thousand peasants were slaughtered at Frankenhausen.”
Cranach exchanged glances with Melanchthon. He knew they thought he was overreacting, but he didn’t care.
“The princes massacred the townspeople, then beheaded three hundred rebels!” Luther pounded his fist on the worktable. “They even raped Müntzer’s wife.”
One of the journeymen shook his head. “That isn’t the worst, Doctor Luther. We just got the news of the battle near Alsace. Eighteen thousand dead peasants.”
“No.” Luther looked to Cranach for confirmation.
Cranach waved a hand to silence his worker, but his sad eyes testified to the truth of the statement.
Pain shot through Luther’s chest as if someone had slashed it with a searing hot poker. The intensity took his breath away.
“They had no chance against the knights,” the journeyman continued. “The peasants broke formation in the face of the charging cavalry. Their farm equipment was no match for the long pikes of the Landsknechts.”
Luther heard a drumroll of death begin in his head. He could picture the battlefield, the pikes slicing through the peasants, the horses trampling them underfoot.
“Don’t say any more.” Cranach’s sharp command stopped the journeyman’s next sentence. But the man’s words of horror already hung in the air.
Cranach started toward Luther. “You look pale. Maybe you should sit down.”
The drum in Luther’s head pounded louder. He gripped his head and groaned. The pressure was too much. “What have I done? What have I done?”
The peasants had trusted him, had believed he would help deliver them from their oppression. When he’d allied himself with the princes, he’d betrayed them, his people. Now the guilt of their deaths fell upon his shoulders.
Cranach reached for his arm. “Come with me. We’ll go get a drink.”
Luther brushed him away. The room swayed under his feet, and he stumbled like a drunken man. “When will the princes stop?” he shouted, throwing out his arms, trying to balance himself.
Cranach grabbed him.
“Will they stop when they’ve finally murdered every peasant in Germany?” Blackness hovered before him. It was the dark hole of melancholy. He hadn’t fallen into it recently, but this time his body pulled him toward it, and he couldn’t resist.
His knees buckled and darkness swallowed him whole.
Visions of headless peasants filled his dreams. They chased after him and reached for him with their bloody hands. He couldn’t escape even though he never stopped running. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing.
We know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose. The verse from Romans drifted in the distance. He raced faster and tried to grasp it, but it slipped from his fingers.
The princes laughed at him from atop their horses.
He wanted to yell at them, to tell them that he didn’t care if they supported the reforms anymore. But his voice rumbled in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make a sound. They’d gagged him and left him to take the brunt of the blame and anger for their brutality.
“We’ve done everything we can.” Voices sounded above him.
Cool fingers brushed against his forehead.
“The physician bled him?”
“He thought if he drained the melancholy blood out of him—”
“Bring me the cool rag and the Obstwasser.”
The fingers lifted his hair, gently like a heavenly breeze.
He strained upward, craving more, but his body had turned to bronze.
Faint strains of music called to him.
“Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf. Sleep, child, sleep.” A sweet voice beckoned him. “Sleep, child, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the branches small. Lovely dreams in showers fall. Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf.”
“Katharina?” he mumbled, trying to open his eyes and sit up.
The music stopped. “I’m here.”
He fought through a dizzy wave of darkness but couldn’t pull himself out of the deep pit into which he’d fallen.
The soft plucking of the lute started again. This time she hummed the tune of the lullaby.
His body began to relax. Slowly the dizziness cleared and the blackness dissipated. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the drooping canopy of bed curtains above him. The thick burgundy layers had been pulled open to the confines of a strange bedroom.
Where was he? What had happened?
“Katharina?” He reached out a shaking hand.
Her fingers met his. The feel of her cool skin was a balm against his hot flesh. With a sigh he laced his fingers through hers and then lifted her hand to his cheek and pressed it to the heat of his face.
In the dimness of the room, her pale face, framed by her golden hair, hovered near. “You look like an angel. Am I in heaven?”
She smiled. Perched on the boarded edge of the bed, she held the lute and appraised him with concern.
“You’re not dead yet, Doctor Luther. Although with as much blood as the physician drained from you, I’m quite surprised you’re not.”
He took in the black slit on his lower arm, still oozing blood, and became conscious of the sting of the wound.
“So they couldn’t bleed the melancholy out of me?”
“They tried. But then Wolfgang begged Master Cranach to send for me.”
“Wolfgang?” His trusted old servant had actually asked for Katharina? “Wolfgang must have been really worried about me to send for you.”
“Maybe he has finally realized I’m not going to kill you.”
“Or maybe he’s going senile.”
Katharina’s smile widened, softening the worried lines in her face. “I guess he knew I could beat the devil from you.”
“If anyone could beat that old Enemy, you could.”
Wisps of her hair floated about her like a golden crown. The tilt of her head, the bearing of her shoulders—she could have been a princess except for the smudge of dirt on her high cheekbone.
“Did they find you in the garden?” He touched his thumb to her cheek and rubbed it against the dirt.
At his stroke she stiffened and glanced over her shoulder at the others in the room.
His gaze followed hers. Cranach, Melanchthon, Jonas, and other friends and servants watched them from the dark fringes of the room.
“What is this?” he croaked to them, dropping his hand. “I’m not dying, not yet.”
Jonas stepped to the edge of the bed. “You’re sure? Because we’ve got the parish box waiting outside the door.”
Luther rolled his eyes at his friend’s poor attempt at humor. “Will you send everyone away? We’ll postpone the laying out for another day.”
As the others exited the room, Katharina rose to leave too.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. “Don’t leave yet. I still need my Doctor Kate.”
She looked at her hand held captive by his, a flush spreading up her neck.
He was embarrassed to admit that she was the reason he wanted everyone else to leave. He couldn’t explain why, but he needed her there without everyone else looking on.
“Please stay.” His whisper was hoarse.
She trembled slightly but didn’t meet his gaze. “Then you must promise to be a good patient and do everything I say.”
“Don’t I always do
what you say?” he asked, trying to infuse his voice with a lightness that would disguise the longing coursing through him.
She extracted her hand and shoved the jug toward him. “Sit up and take a drink.”
“Yes, lord Katharina.” He tried to push himself up, but the jolt of pain in his head made him bite back a groan.
“Let me help you.” She slipped an arm behind his neck, and the warmth from her body drew nearer. The scent of herbs he couldn’t name filled the air between them. God help him, but he didn’t believe he could resist her another moment. A glance to the doorway told him that they were finally alone, save Jonas. She tried easing him up. He cooperated for only a moment before collapsing backward, leaving her little choice but to fall against him.
Her startled gasp melted against his cheek.
“I beg your pardon, Herr Doctor.” She started to lift herself up, sounding mortified.
“Wait, Katharina,” he whispered, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her and make her stay. “Don’t go yet.”
She pushed up so that her face hovered above his. Her eyes were wide and dark as the evening sky. She glanced over her shoulder, and he followed her gaze to Jonas, who quickly pivoted and feigned an interest in the tapestry on the wall. Luther would have to thank his friend later for his help in orchestrating a moment alone with Katharina.
“Talk to me for a minute,” Luther whispered, drawing her attention back to him. He couldn’t keep his gaze from sliding over her high cheekbones and down her long neck.
Her quick intake of breath told him she sensed his perusal. “What do you want to talk about?” she whispered.
“You.” He couldn’t think straight. “You smell of flowers and sunshine.”
“I’ve been busy with the new garden plot Master Cranach purchased.”
He slipped his arm around her waist so that his palm rested on the small of her back. It fit there perfectly. And when she again didn’t resist him, his confidence soared. “Tell me, are you as bossy with your plants as you are with your people?”