by Anne Boileau
Martin dropped his gaze for a moment and stared at the candle, scratching his head. He was wondering what to say. His face was flushed, as much with wine as with anger; or did I see a hint of shame and embarrassment there too? Then he stepped towards me, looking me full in the eyes, thrusting his hands out sideways, palms uppermost; for a moment I thought he might hit me.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, coming up here at this time of night? Can you imagine what people will say? Don’t we have enough trouble as it is, without you causing more scandal?” He spoke quietly but his eyes were flashing with fury. I bit my tongue. I was not going to give way. He was wrong, and I think he knew it. Still, I had to keep my temper in check. If this went too far, one or other of us would say or do something unforgivable. Angry as I was, there was inside me a still place, a calm voice, warning me to be careful.
I ignored his gibe about scandal. “I’ll say it again, you must promise never again to speak to me like that. I cannot and will not marry a man who does not respect me. I will not be the butt of your witticisms in front of others.”
“You are an insufferable woman. What a nerve you have, speaking to me like that! I am a doctor of the church, not some naive youth, like that fair-haired fop from Nürnberg. You forget yourself! If you join us at table, it is to learn, to listen to great minds and not to argue and disagree about things you cannot understand. You women have your area of expertise and we men ours. You must learn to respect the boundaries.”
“Do not make my sex a reason for dismissing what I have to say. I can accept criticism, but I will not be humiliated and made fun of in front of your guests; when we are married they will be our guests, not just yours. All I am asking for is the respect due to a wife.”
“Then I suggest you learn to behave like a grown woman as befits a wife, and not a strident, petulant servant girl!” he growled, his jowl trembling as he pointed a finger at me with little jabs for each insulting word: strident, petulant, argumentative, opinionated, and so it went on.
I was dizzy with rage and had heard enough; so I turned, picked up my candle and made for the heavy oak door, slipping through as it still stood slightly ajar. I wanted to slam the door, but it was too heavy and closed very slowly. But as it closed, I heard a loud crash – Dr Luther must have thrown the pewter candlestick at the door. The light beneath the door had gone out, and I heard him swearing in the dark as he kicked the bottom of the door.
With trembling knees, holding my candle up in front of me, I made my way gingerly down the spiral steps then more easily down the wide staircase, set the candle down on the trestle table, and let myself out into the courtyard; I gasped in the cool fresh air and pushed through the portal in the heavy gate, out into the street. Then I walked unescorted down the street to the Cranachs’ house, my footsteps ringing out in the silence of the late night. I was shivering and my legs were weak, but I felt buoyed up with defiance, certain that I had done the right thing: he had to understand, to concede my point. If he would not, could not, then there was no hope of us making a successful marriage.
Then I realised I was not quite alone. At my heels trotted Tölpel, the Doctor’s dog. He must have seen me leave the Cloister and decided to accompany me home. I was strangely moved. Despite strict rules about who should enter the town, and all four gates being locked and manned from dusk until dawn, women were not supposed to go about alone after dark. In fact, the Doctor should never have allowed to me to walk back without an escort. But here was the dog, escorting me; it was as if he sensed all was not well between us; it seemed to me that he was pledging his solidarity with me.
I reached the door of the Cranach House and thumped the metal knocker. Shuffling steps inside, the old caretaker unbolted the small port in the oak gate. Before stepping inside I turned to the dog; he was sitting with his head on one side, watching me.
“Go home, Tölpel,” I told him, softly. He turned and trotted back towards the Cloister.
Chapter 14
Whitsun Fair
Himmel und Erde, Leben und Tod sind grosse Dinge, der Glaube an Christus ist viel grösser.
Heaven and earth, life and death are great things, faith in Christ is even greater.
The house was dark and quiet. One lamp always burns in the hallway. I took my own snuffer (marked with a K) and lit the candle. I went up to my room and undid my bodice, slipped out of the green dress and let it fall to the floor. I tried to rub away the sensation of tight laces beneath my breasts by scratching my tummy; I visited the privy, washed my face and hands and crept into bed.
Sleep came instantly, followed by a dream about my father. He’s riding through Wittenberg on his favourite horse, Conquest. He sees me and halts. “Käthchen, dear girl. My daughter. Where have you been all this time? Come with me. I’m going to fight in a wonderful war! Come, follow me!” and he waves and trots away without a backward glance.
I want to run after him but he’s riding too fast and my legs are heavy; I can’t keep up, can’t push my way through the crowds. So I just stand there and notice that people are staring at me with open disapproval, even disgust! I look down; oh horror, I had forgotten to put on my blouse and bodice! My breasts are bare to the world for all to see! I wake up in shame, miserable at the loss of my father, guilty at my brazenness, and confused. Very soon, though, I fall asleep again; this time I sleep deeply and sweetly.
But when I woke at dawn a heavy dread took hold of me as I remembered our altercation of the night before. Had I thrown away my chances of a prestigious marriage? Would he reject me now, ask to be released from our betrothal? I knew plenty of his friends would be only too willing to discourage him from the match. On the other hand was I convinced about the match myself? Did I really want to devote my life to a man who respected me so little, who made fun of me in front of other men? I wished Ave were here for me to confide in. I could write to her, but I needed an answer now.
To my surprise, after getting dressed and going downstairs, I felt strong and defiant; I flung myself into work. I sluiced down the dairy, cleaned shelves and washed out all the pans. I shook out fresh straw into the stalls. The cattle festival for Pentecost was in two days’ time, so I shampooed both the cows all over, from top to toe, taking particular care with their tails, bottoms and udders; I oiled their hooves and combed out their tail tassels, so that they would look their best for the parade. Barbara came out just as I was finishing.
“Oh well done, Kathe, they look beautiful. We must keep them clean until the parade. I was looking for you, because there’s a swarm hanging on the linden tree. We haven’t got a spare hive, do you know of anyone who’s looking for a swarm?”
“The blacksmith’s wife wants one. Shall I take it over to her?”
“Oh yes please. And ask Herr Schmidt, when he has a moment, to come over and measure up for some new shutter flanges for the shop.”
I fetched a sack from the back kitchen, and looking through the workshop window asked one of the apprentices to come and help me. Together we approached the swarm. There it was, suspended like an idle dudelsack from a low branch of the linden tree. It hung motionless, more like a single organism than hundreds of individual insects; a dark brown shiny blob with a kind of glisten to it. The only indication of life was a faint hum coming from within. Franz held the sack open and I tapped the branch, loosening it from the tree. It dropped into the sack and we quickly tied it up with string; then I carried the precious bundle across the square to the smithy.
Herr Schmidt was bent double beneath a grey draft horse, pressing a red hot shoe onto his hind hoof; man and horse were swathed in blue smoke giving off the rich smell of scorching hoof; the forge glowed red, and a girl of about eight was pumping the bellows; I knew her as the smith’s daughter from his first wife, who had died giving birth to her. Herr Schmidt straightened up when he saw me, and plunged the shoe into a pail of water making it hiss and boil. I showed him the sack.
“Frau Cranach wishes your wife to take this swarm, w
ith her compliments. We heard she was looking for one.”
“Fräulein von Bora, how kind, yes indeed, we do have an empty hive just waiting for tenants”. He whistled at the girl to fetch her stepmother, who appeared in a moment, a toddler at her feet and a baby in her arms.
“We are honoured indeed, my lady. A swarm from the Cranach House, brought by the Bride of Dr Luther!”
I was quite taken aback that she already knew. How rapidly news travels in this town!
“Many thanks. Can I offer you some beer, or mead perhaps?”
She took the sack from me, and stowed it carefully in the corner.
“Thank you, but I must get back. Frau Cranach did ask me to say they would like some new shutter flanges when your husband is free; the old ones are not secure enough, you know how it is these days.”
“Consider it done,” she said; her husband was once again crouched beneath the horse, clenches between his teeth, the large hoof cradled on his leather apron between his knees, hammering the new shoe into place.
“When is the happy day, might I ask?” inquired the blacksmith’s wife, shifting the child onto the other hip and swatting away her little boy as he pulled at her apron.
“Oh, we haven’t fixed a date yet,” I said vaguely, and took my leave. Happy day? It might never happen. Back at the Cranach House I went up to my room and sat alone on my bed.
Barbara sensed something was wrong, but I refrained from confiding in her and she was tactful enough not to enquire. I must negotiate my own way through this thicket of thorns. For two days I heard no word from him. I for my part was determined not to approach him; if he couldn’t find the generosity to apologise for his rudeness to me, I would not enter into marriage with him. Our union has to be built on respect: on mutual respect. Without that our marriage would destroy us both. Or this is what I felt.
On the Feast of Pentecost the sun was shining, the sky a cloudless blue, the air sweet with the fragrance of lilac. We all got up early to pick flowers for the cows and calves. They looked so fine with garlands woven in between their horns and head collars, twined hay and red ribbons on their surcingles and ribbons on their tails. Then we dressed up too, in our best frocks and caps, the boys in their breeches and jerkins; and the whole town strolled towards the Church decked out in their Sunday best.
The altar cloth was red for the fire of the Holy Spirit. The opening hymn was:
‘Come Holy Ghost, our souls inspire and lighten with celestial fire.’
From the gallery children threw down rose petals onto the congregation, symbolising the coming of the Holy Spirit; then we listened to the reading.
“And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.”
I looked around the crowded church, and couldn’t see him anywhere. Bugenhagen was taking the service as usual, but the Doctor often preaches or reads a lesson. Not today.
The reading continued: ‘Are not all these who speak Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs – in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’ It dawned on me that I had never heard this reading in German before; it came across so vivid and true, and might have happened here, in Wittenberg, in modern times, not fifteen hundred years ago in Palestine. It hit me with a jolt: that is what Dr Luther has done! He has opened our ears to the Holy Scriptures in our own tongue, so we can understand and delight in them. He has spoken with tongues. As this revelation swept over me, trumpets blared out from the ambulatory; they must have been hidden behind the altar and the sound filled the church; they blew to symbolise the coming of the mighty wind.
We sang another hymn but the words of the reading rang on in my ears: “All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’ But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.’” A lot of people, on hearing the Apostles speaking in tongues, accused them of being drunk; they had their enemies and detractors, just as Dr Luther did.
Bugenhagen preached but I did not listen. My mind was elsewhere, I was filled with doubt and anxiety. At length he announced the final hymn; the second last verse goes like this:
“Hardened scoffers vainly jeered, Listening strangers heard and feared, Knew the prophet’s word fulfilled, Owned the work which God had willed.”
Bugenhagen gave the final blessing and it was time to leave the church; we shuffled slowly towards the door, the aisles packed, people greeting one another. But where was the Doctor? As we emerged blinking into the sunlight we came up against a crowd of gypsies gathering in the square, ready for the parade. They must have arrived the day before and set up their tents on the common with their travelling circus; what a mélée! Even as we watched, they began to process down the street; camels ridden by Arabs in long white robes; two elephants walking sedately, being steered by dark-skinned men in turbans; two lions pacing back and forth in a cage on a tumbril; a man dressed like Harlequin leading a dancing bear on a chain; on another cart sat three sad monkeys dressed up like little Turks in silks and satins with gold collars and chains round their necks; gypsy women swathed in exotic flowing skirts and embroidered blouses; flamboyant gold rings swung from their ears and their glossy black hair hung like thick bell-ropes down their backs. They brought with them a whiff of the east, and I thought about the Turks and how easily they could invade and take us over with their heathen practices and alien God.
After a suitable pause the more sedate municipal procession followed on: the town guilds, each one with their particular dressed wagon: the weavers, the basket makers, the printers and papermakers, the masons and carpenters, the smiths and farriers, the cobblers and saddlers; candle makers, bakers, tailors, potters; wainwrights, wheelwrights, woad producers; every guild had a wagon with apprentices and children on board showing the tools of their trade and examples of work; following the guilds came an assortment of local minstrels; dancers, jugglers and itinerant players; and finally in their wake, the ordinary citizens, men, women and children, wanting to join in, some of them leading their livestock.
We fetched our cows and calves and fell in with the crowd as it processed with great noise and commotion towards the fairground. Some families also brought their goats or geese or poultry or caged birds to show off or to sell.
Once through the town gates, we saw the fairground; the field had become a canvas city, with stalls selling all manner of things: grilled fish and sausage; pretzels and doughnuts; waffles with honey; in the beer tent strong-armed women strode about with swinging hips between the tables serving steins of beer to the thirsty crowds. I got separated from the Cranachs and their cows. I’m not very good in crowds; being amongst a throng can make me feel faint and my heart starts beating too fast. So I sat down at a table in a corner of the big tent and ordered a beer. I swallowed it in long cool draughts and felt calmer. All the time, I was looking out for my betrothed, but he was still nowhere to be seen. Was he deliberately avoiding me?
Then I had an idea: I would go and have my fortune told. I had spotted a sign earlier, “Come in and consult the oracle! Learn about your destiny! Madame Oraclieri will gaze into a crystal ball and foretell your future!” I found the tent and was ushered in through the flap. It was dark inside, smelling of something like incense, but different; an old gypsy woman was crouched over a low table, with one candle burning. She had a crystal ball and a piper behind a screen was playing a whining oriental tune. “You want I tell your fortune, dear lady?”
“Yes please,” I ventured, poised ready to retreat.
&n
bsp; “First let me see the colour of your silver!” she crooned. Her nose was hooked, and her large hoop earrings glinted in the candlelight. I fished in my purse for a small silver coin, and she whipped it away with her heavily ringed hand.
“Sit ye down, good lady. Show me your right hand.” She drew a long scarlet fingernail across my palm. Then she looked at my face long and hard; after that she stared into her crystal ball. The pipe played on, and I felt myself being lulled into a sort of trance. “Ah… It is foggy, but I am discerning, gradually. Let me see… You are at a crossroads, my child. One road it is going into desert. That way becomes buried in sand; I am seeing thorn trees, drought, thirst and it is sad. You are lonely and are spending the life searching for oasis. You will die of thirst, not married, an old maid. Now I am looking down the other road. What do we see? This road is bumpy, many holes and bends, but it is coming to meadows and streams. On this road you will marry, my child. You will bear fruit of your loins but will lose some. You will be happy and also sad. Your life will be fulfilled, but you must endure much. Your husband will love you. A great man he will be and you will help him. If you take the right road now.”
“Good mother, how should I know which road is which?”
“I cannot tell you that, my child. You alone must make that choice. Your destiny lies within you.”
With that she gave me a bow with her hands together, indicating that our interview was at an end; she flicked a square of black samite over the crystal ball and rose stiffly to her feet. I thanked her and bent to leave the tent. I was blinded by the sunlight and felt dazed by what she had said. I no longer wanted to see the freak show or watch the acrobats walking the tightrope or the monkeys riding on circus horses; I didn’t even want an elephant ride. I decided to make my way to the show ring where the livestock were being paraded, I might be able to meet up with the Cranachs. But of course above all I wanted to see Martin, to talk to him, make it up with him. I shaded my eyes trying to decide which way to go.