Luther hooted in response, reminding me of his state of inebriation. “It makes me wonder, then, should you be in full conversation, if one were to perfect his timing, he could aim for a chaste kiss to the cheek—” he leaned in as if to do so—“but find himself infinitely more rewarded.”
I leaned a little closer too. “That man would suffer the same consequences as he who would wish to strike me.”
“Such brutality from a woman so recently quitted from the veil.”
“Such flirtation from a man who spent his youth copying Scripture.”
We’d come to an impasse of wit, and as I knew his attentions to be evidence of his intoxication, I refrained from any further coquettish display.
“Have you anything else to tell me, Luther?”
“Only this. That Baumgartner is a fool, and I will see to it that you are happy in this life.”
“You do me a great honor to take on such a task. Perhaps you’ll think better of it after a good night’s sleep.”
“Perhaps.”
He offered a gracious bow and backed away, wishing me pleasant dreams as if I were a child. I closed the door and leaned against it, guarding myself against a sudden return, but knowing I would welcome his company. No matter the drink, no matter the hour, these truths remained: Luther had looked at me with eyes I’d never seen before. He spoke in a voice I’d never heard, and touched me in a way I could never have imagined in all our times together. With tenderness not paternal in nature. With passion not rooted in religion. And here I stood, a new reaction struck within me. My pulse unsteady, my breath shallow, and something like a giant needle stabbed into the base of my spine. Were I Ave, with her youth and vitality, I might ascribe my visceral reaction to that of a woman newly in love.
But this was fear.
CHAPTER 27
MY LIFE HAD always been constrained into seasons of learning. As a small girl, I learned I was stronger than anyone could have imagined, that my brothers’ age and size and ferocity proved no match to my own. In the brief years I knew my mother, I learned to love—fiercely and completely. I don’t know that any woman would have been suitable to take her place in my eyes, and certainly not the monster Papa brought into our home. And so, just as I learned to love, I learned to guard myself, to not be taken in and told to love simply because some authority insisted I do so. It was that lesson, that balance of love and antipathy, two scales swinging from my father’s shoulders, with which I would determine to love or not love, follow or not follow every person and path in my life to come.
At Brehna I simply learned—to read adequately, and to cipher, and the catechism of our faith. I memorized passages of Scripture, recited the prayers of the Church, unburdened my young soul to a confessor, and paid my penance without complaint. It is also where I became a sneak and a liar—neither of which I would ever claim as sin, not in the confessional or on my knees at night. I lived with hidden pockets and noisy shoes and endless hope that Papa would come and fetch me home. Even with the new mama I hated, even with the brothers who treated me with disregard. Filtered prayers would go unanswered, God’s instruction came with pain, and only friends would save me.
At Marienthrone I became a leader, seeking my own salvation and orchestrating the escape of my fellow sisters. To hear Luther tell it, I’ve been known to blush and downplay my part. But in my heart I’ve always recognized my role. I might never speak of it aloud, willing to publicly share the accomplishment with Girt, Ave, and the others. Even with Hans and Luther himself. But God gave me a certain spark. I learned to nurture it, let it grow, and let it blaze a path—for all of us, certainly. However, had I been alone, I would have considered my escape no less a victory.
In the Reichenbach home, I learned to be a woman. To dance and eat meals with multiple courses and conversations. I stitched and read poetry and learned to dress in a way that flattered my figure and my complexion and my youth. More than any of this, of course, I learned to love in the way God designed a woman to love. Headstrong, unafraid—leading myself into the trap, clawing myself out with tears, and all with a facade worthy of a game at cards.
None of this, though, made me a complete being. Not until I became a fixture in the Cranach house did I learn what I would need for survival and success. Barbara Cranach ran a complicated household with a large staff, and under her tutelage I learned to do the same—keeping the pantry stocked, drafting the budget, dispensing salaries, and collecting rent from many of their family holdings.
In addition to his commissioned paintings, Cranach made a lucrative business of selling prints from his woodcuts, and I often aided in those transactions—recording orders, negotiating with the printers, and securing delivery. This I liked best because it gave me occasion to venture into Cranach’s studio, a cavernous room on the third floor with windows that allowed it to be filled with bright, natural light. I’d pick my way through the unfinished canvases propped against the wall, gingerly peeking at one image behind another. Some abandoned because of Cranach’s temperament, others because a client failed to pay a fee. While no one could argue his artistic genius, neither could one ignore the fact that he capitalized on the value of his talent. I thought of poor Christoph, struggling and devoid of skill, living off the generosity of patrons and friends, destined to live out his days in some bedraggled attic.
If I confessed truly to myself, though, I would have to admit that I took advantage of any excuse to go into Cranach’s studio because there hung the portrait of Luther. The man himself had been a rare guest at the house—fewer than one visit a week, and then nothing beyond polite conversation at supper and an exit into the evening. Neither of us ever spoke of his late visit to my room, how he talked about my lips and touched my hair. Part of me hoped he didn’t remember; having not experienced true intoxication, I could not say what havoc a night of imbibing would have on a morning’s memory. He’d left by the time I came down from my room the next morning, and when next I did see him, he clearly remembered every word. I knew this because he spoke so few, and wouldn’t look squarely at me when he did so.
And so, on my visits to Cranach’s studio, on whatever trivial excuse I could find to make the journey, I would stand patiently, waiting for his attention, and study the portrait. Though it had been painted just a few years before, it clearly testified to the physical toll of Luther’s campaign. The man in the portrait shared Luther’s humor, with his full lips poised to upturn in a smile, but there was no hint of the strain that often crept into his countenance. Cranach’s thin brush had captured each of Luther’s whiskers—an ever-present shadow—and the nuanced brown of his eyes. The cap rendered in oil might be the same ratty one he wore in summer, and the brown curls beneath it had grown longer and lighter.
“Not so handsome a devil, is he?” Cranach said one day, catching me in study.
“No more or less than most other men,” I said, surprising us both with my defensiveness.
“Do you think him more handsome here? Or in his living flesh?”
I evaded the directness of the question. “He’s younger here.”
“It’s how I remember my friend, before all of this—” He waved his hand, still clutching a brush, as if clearing the consequences of Luther’s actions with a single broad stroke.
I looked back at the painting, closer, since I had no reason to hide my scrutiny. I could see it, the affection, the friendship. Luther’s eyes looked away, dreaming at something far off. Christoph had attempted the same such gaze in my portrait—to a far lesser success. But what had been my feigned vision? A feckless lover? Much as I maligned Christoph’s skill, my greater shame came from knowing what I’d been thinking, feeling, wanting at the time he touched the paint to the canvas.
But Luther. In his eyes—unfocused and far off as they were—he held his future. His passion and intelligence. The seed of rebellion planted within a field of composure and faith.
Ave married her doctor in the spring—late May, to be exact, just weeks after markin
g the first anniversary of our escape from Marienthrone. Luther officiated, looking every bit as comfortable standing at the front of Stadtkirche as he ever looked sitting at a supper table, or in front of a fire, or under a snow-filled sky. I stood as a maid of honor, and von Amsdorf as a groomsman—as if we were all lifelong friends and not acquaintances thrown together through the machinations of the minister performing the ceremony.
Barbara Cranach had been giving me a small living allowance, in recompense of my position in the house. I could not afford a new gown for the occasion, but I managed to set aside a portion each week until I’d saved enough to purchase a new forepart to wear with my green gown. It was stitched with the colors of spring, winding vines and roses, and held the distinction of being the first garment I had ever purchased for myself. In the year’s time, my hair had grown. Dark and thick, it fell below my shoulders, and I understood for the first time why it was called both a crowning glory and a covering. I wore it braided and pinned, with a simple cap befitting my place.
Though I arrived at the church that morning feeling, for the first time since Jerome’s declaration of love, pretty, I was no match for the vision coming down the aisle. Ave, wearing a gown the color of a fresh quince with sleeves that draped to the floor and a train that swept behind her steps, moved like a ray of sun within the high gray walls of the chapel. Her blonde hair had been fashioned into spiraling curls, then pinned with intertwining jewels in a fashion I had never before seen. A gossamer veil draped over it and fell prettily on her shoulders. How cruel it would be to have kept such loveliness confined beneath the white woolen veil of a nun. More so to deny the young man standing opposite me the opportunity to see such a vision and know that he would wrap it in his arms and live with its beauty forever.
I hazarded a glance at Luther, who smiled in a paternal fashion, and another over at von Amsdorf, who seemed appropriately impressed. Ave came up alongside her groom, and they knelt in prayer, reverent to Luther’s speech.
“When God spoke life into the first man, Adam, he knew it would not be good for man to be alone. So he created Eve, and designed with his holy hand the gift of marriage.”
Luther’s voice echoed in the cavernous chapel; he spoke as if each pew were filled with his followers, listening in rapt attention—a common scenario on days he preached from this pulpit. In reality, there were few in attendance. Besides those of us standing at the altar, a smattering of guests looked on. Ave’s parents had softened in their displeasure, though her mother wept openly throughout the ceremony, and her father never did unfold his arms. The good doctor was well represented in friends, as evidenced by the gathering of distinguished men sitting off to one side. Finally, to my greatest delight, Girt—enormous with child—and her Hans slipped into the back row. I could feel her joy reach up the entirety of the aisle.
Luther spoke Scripture, the bride and groom spoke vows, and I half-listened, too caught up in my own reverie to take account of the promises spoken. In a little more than a year, I had transformed from a woman who never envisioned this ceremony for herself to one who accepted its invitation to one who recognized it as a fruitless pursuit. I would never be a vision of innocence like Ave, or a woman content with a simple farm life as Girt seemed to be. I longed for society beyond my means and responsibilities beyond my gender. My happiest moments were spent in spirited discourse, a mutual challenging of ideas. How many times had Luther chided me about my tongue, saying no man wanted a woman who could slice him to the quick with little more than a word?
“A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike,” he’d said, quoting the proverb. This on one of his rare visits the past winter, late February, when we’d been debating the merits of overt generosity in lieu of prudent saving and investment.
“But why must a difference of opinion be defined as contentious?” I’d asked.
“By its very definition,” he’d said, declaring the subject closed.
“But, then, wouldn’t a contentious man be equally unbearable?”
“I suppose a contentious woman would say so.”
Invariably he compared me to Ave, not on our differences in age and beauty, but comportment and presence.
“Note how she listens to every word the man says,” he observed once. Our heads were inclined toward each other’s, watching Ave and her fiancé discuss the priorities in furnishing their future home. “How she allows him to speak to the tail end of a sentence before racing in with her own thought.”
“Yes,” I’d concurred in mock admiration, “and even more delightful is the fact that her own thoughts are mere diminutive versions of his own.”
Now, beside me, the bride’s and groom’s words indeed echoed each other. Vows of fidelity, of strength and protection. And love. Somehow God had brought together two perfect strangers and, in a matter of months, joined their hearts to beat for a single lifetime. In all of creation, I could imagine no greater miracle.
Afterwards, when they were declared man and wife in the eyes of God and all the witnesses, we—von Amsdorf, Luther, and I—followed them down the aisle, though I peeled off before exiting the church to wrap my arms around dear Girt—to the extent that my arms would reach.
“I see you’ve wasted no time.” My chiding was soft and, to her credit, brought no blush to Girt’s cheek.
“We’re hoping for a boy, of course. Hans already has a list of farm chores for him to do.”
I offered a kiss to Hans and issued an invitation that they join us at the Cranachs’ for the reception supper and celebration.
“You don’t think they’ll mind, do you?” I inquired of Luther over my shoulder. “It’s just two more people. There’ll be plenty.”
“The way this one eats, more like four.” Hans attempted to put an affectionate arm around Girt’s shoulder, then laughed when she elbowed him away.
Luther came to the same conclusion, that the Cranach household was one resplendent with hospitality, and the presence of these good people would be welcome at any cost. I instructed them to simply follow the wedding party in its walk to the house, but lingered with Luther at the church door. It was a sight to see, how the celebration continued on the steps and into the street as passersby recognized a wedding party and sang out blessings and well-wishings. They took fruit and bread from their shopping baskets and handed it to the parade of guests—contributions to the wedding feast. Little girls reached tentative hands toward Ave’s dress and were allowed to lift the train from off the street and follow her all the way to the Cranachs’ house, where they would receive a small cake as a reward. Had I such an opportunity as a child, to touch my hand to such elegance, to participate in a ceremony of such joy, I never would have allowed myself to be given over to a life that would deny its quest. I knew these girls with their grubby hands and silken braids would dream of nothing else but to be a bride. Even I could not escape its allure, though I’d lost an entire year and a portion of my innocence to chase it.
“Shall we?” Luther offered his arm.
I nodded and took it, mindful of how he paused at the door.
“Do you remember that night, still?” I asked, following his gaze to the doors closed behind us, their heavy wood still marked by his nails.
“Such a reckless act.”
“Does courage not necessitate a certain heedless temperament? What if you’d waited until morning? What if you’d given it one more night’s sleep?”
He didn’t answer, as I knew he wouldn’t. Luther preferred to communicate in facts, not hypotheticals, but I hadn’t posed the question for his benefit. Rather, it served as a residual, haunting regret of my own lost happiness. What if Jerome had stepped away from his parents at the Reichenbachs’ Christmas party and fulfilled his promise? What if he’d posted any of the dozens of letters I imagined he wrote, only to discard them in a fit of uncertainty? What if—as Marina hinted—he had taken me away from the garden that night? Such abandon then would mean stability now. My own husband, my o
wn home, perhaps my own child growing within this emptiness.
“Tell me something, Luther.” We began our walk to the Cranachs’ home, a short distance through streets that were bustling at midmorning. “Do you truly believe what God said—that it was not good for man to be alone?”
“I believe every word of God,” he said, his attention divided between my conversation and his acquaintances.
“Do you think it applies to women as well as men?”
“More so. As women are the weaker sex. Their lives can only be enhanced by marriage.”
We walked, my hand resting lightly on his arm, and I wondered what people might make of us. Strangers in the street offered me greetings, blessings on my day, and I knew their friendliness had root in my association. Nobody, I’m sure, thought me to be his wife. The marriage of Martin Luther would have been an event to be recognized in every household from pope to pauper. Clearly, though, I was seen as his equal, perhaps in a way I never would if we were bound in any way other than mutual esteem.
“Would you have married him, Kate?” The question came with the ease of conversation, though we hadn’t spoken for several steps. And we hadn’t spoken of him since Christmas.
“Yes. I would have.”
“Because you loved him?”
“What other reason?”
“Oh, you know as well as I that there are other reasons.”
“Especially for a woman, I suppose?”
“For a man, too.”
And we walked. I had no desire to quarrel today, not on an occasion so joyous. So I made a small sound of agreement.
“Do you want to be married?”
At the moment he asked, I stumbled. Ostensibly because I struck my foot against a stone, but then I might not have done so if I’d had all my senses engaged in my steps. Instead, every part of my body below the ears that heard his question went numb, and I relied on his strength to hold me up, because I could no longer trust my grip on his arm.
Loving Luther Page 26
