by Jody Hedlund
Brother Gabriel hesitated and glanced from the bubbling kettle to the assortment of jugs on the lone shelf on the back wall of the shed.
“Stay.” Katharina wiped her hands on her habit. “You finish the wort. I shall go with Wolfgang and take Doctor Luther the Obstwasser.”
“Oh. No, no.” Wolfgang backed to the door and spread his arms wide to block her exit, his thick black brows crooking into a deep scowl. “Doctor Luther needs Brother Gabriel.”
“Which is the Obstwasser? This one?” She reached for the closest jug, a small one with a slender neck.
Brother Gabriel shook his head and pointed to the identical one next to it.
“I can help.” She grabbed the jug and spun around to face Wolfgang. “Now take me to him.”
Her command allowed no argument. She was, after all, a noblewoman and he only a commoner. He had no authority over her, and he should do as she bade, whether he liked it or not.
She stopped in the infirmary and prepared an infusion of St.-John’s-wort. All the while Wolfgang muttered and complained and scrutinized every jar she opened and every ingredient she added.
“Maybe you are working for Duke George,” she said as they wound up the spiraling steps to the dormer rooms. “He could hire you just as easily as he could hire me.”
Wolfgang’s fierce expression twisted into horror. “We all admire and respect Doctor Luther.” The shock in his voice echoed off the walls. “None of us would be here if we weren’t willing to stake our lives on him and his reforms.”
Although she hadn’t seen Doctor Luther since he’d accompanied them home from Saint Mary’s, she had grown to appreciate his kindness to them more with each passing day. Their presence at his home had surely brought him only more censure and hardship, and yet he’d borne it regardless of the cost.
The least she could do was lend him her doctoring skills. It made no difference to her that the last time she’d aided him, he’d told her to spare him her presence. He’d only said it in anger—at least she hoped. And surely now in the midst of his discomfort he would appreciate her knowledgeable assistance.
When they reached the cell Doctor Luther had converted into an office, Katharina swept into the narrow room that was nearly identical to the ones she and the other nuns occupied on the next level. She stopped short at the sight of him sprawled facedown on the floor, motionless except for the trembling in his hands. With the recent rains the air was dank. The room was lit by a lone candle upon Doctor Luther’s writing table.
She stepped around his long, lanky body. Her foot knocked a stack of pamphlets into the papers already spilled across the floor. “How long has he been in this condition?”
“Nigh an hour,” Wolfgang replied, kneeling next to his master, his hands fluttering over Doctor Luther.
“What’s the cause of his melancholy?” Katharina pushed aside dried inkhorns and broken quills, then lowered herself beside Doctor Luther and across from Wolfgang. “Tell me what sends Herr Doctor into his episodes. I must know if I am to help.”
Wolfgang hesitated, glanced at Doctor Luther’s stiff, prostrate form, and then released a sigh. “An envoy of the elector brought him the results of the Diet of Nuremberg. The princes are having discussions with the pope’s nuncio, Chieregati. He’s calling upon them to enforce the Edict of Worms.”
Katharina had heard only a little of Doctor Luther’s open rebellion two years prior against the pope at the Diet of Worms, where he had stood before the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, and refused to recant his writings against the church. The emperor had issued the edict, condemning Doctor Luther to death.
The tales of Doctor’s Luther’s courage had amazed her. How could anyone dare to defy the emperor and the pope? Thus far Elector Frederick had protected Doctor Luther from the emperor’s death warrant. But now if all the other princes decided to enforce Charles V’s Edict of Worms, surely Doctor Luther would soon face death.
“The princes have presented to Chieregati a list of one hundred grievances Germany has endured from Rome,” Wolfgang whispered. “It’s called the Centum Gravamina. The nuncio says the pope will consider the grievances if they’ll promise to hand over Doctor Luther for immediate execution.”
A chill rippled through Katharina. “And will they?”
“They’re deliberating.”
Katharina stared with compassion at the black hood that hid Doctor Luther’s face. How many more days before he was captured and put to death? “Then he has episodes because he’s afraid of dying?”
“Fear of dying?” Wolfgang shook his head. “I don’t think so. But fear of failing? Yes, he doesn’t want this reformation to fail in any way.”
Katharina tugged at Doctor Luther’s hood, her mind spinning. What could she do to ease the melancholy of a man facing prison and death? “Wolfgang, you must bring me Doctor Luther’s lute.”
The manservant didn’t move.
“Doctor Luther likes music?”
He nodded.
“I’ve heard him playing the lute?”
Again he nodded.
“Then fetch his lute and a cool rag.”
She slipped down Doctor Luther’s hood. His eyes were pinched closed, and his face was pressed against the cold floor with one of his cheeks facing her. The line of his jaw was taut and his skin dark with stubble. His hair fell over his forehead, reaching almost to his eyes, but a vein in his temple throbbed.
She lifted her fingers to soothe the vein but hesitated. Did she dare touch this man? Her insides quivered at the thought. In the infirmary at Marienthron, the older sisters had allowed her to care only for the women. She’d never intentionally touched a man before.
A quick glance around the room told her she was alone. Thankfully, for once Wolfgang had done her bidding. She turned her attention back to Doctor Luther, and before she lost all courage, she pressed her palm against his hot skin. Her hand shook at the contact, and a strange heat formed a closed fist deep in her belly.
She skimmed her fingers across the scratchiness of his cheek and then pressed the pulsing vein on the side of his head. She gently massaged it, her knuckles brushing against his hair. The softness was unlike anything she’d felt before. And the fingers of heat in her middle began to unfurl one by one.
He gave a long sigh, and the warmth of his breath bathed the sensitive skin of her wrist.
Her face flushed with sudden warmth at the scandal of her closeness and the familiarity of her touch.
Wolfgang cleared his throat loudly, irritably.
She jerked her hand away from Doctor Luther and glanced up to see that the manservant had returned with the items she’d requested. She set to work, trying to ignore the new and confusing longings.
When she applied the cool cloth to Doctor Luther’s temple, he groaned. She picked up the lute and plucked at the courses with a quill. The soft notes awakened memories of her childhood, the hours watching and listening to her mother play the lute—before her mother had grown ill. Katarina’s fingers found the strings she needed even though her mind had forgotten. She hummed a simple tune, one her mother had often sung to her. “Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf. Sleep, child, sleep. Your father tends the sheep. Your mother shakes the branches small. Lovely dreams in showers fall. Sleep, child, sleep. Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf.”
During the third time through the song, Doctor Luther’s eyes opened, and he rolled to his side. His pale face emphasized the darkness of his eyes. They focused with unwavering intensity on her face. And she couldn’t look into them without having unbidden thoughts about his hair and skin and how they’d felt beneath her fingers.
When she finished, she set aside the lute and reached for the Obstwasser. “Take a drink.”
“So, Sister Katharina, you’re the one fighting the devil off my back this time.” He struggled to sit up and let her hold the jug while he took a swig.
“You’re lucky I’m here to help you, Doctor Luther. The devil cannot abide me.”
“I can believe that
.” A faint smile brought light to his eyes.
She couldn’t keep from returning the smile. “You must take St.-John’s-wort.” She held out the mortar.
He raised an eyebrow at the cloudy liquid.
“It will help ease the melancholy. Take it,” she commanded, “unless you’re afraid I’m trying to poison you again.”
Wolfgang’s low growl came from the doorway. But Doctor Luther’s smile widened. He took the bowl and drank the liquid in one gulp. Then he handed the empty bowl back to her. “Anything else, Doctor Katharina? Perhaps another song on the lute?”
She shook her head. “No. A song from you perhaps but not from me. I’ve played the only song I know.”
His expression turned suddenly serious. His gaze held hers, and the intensity stole her breath. “It was a beautiful song, and I thank you, Katharina, for your help.”
The softness and sincerity of his words only added to the warmth in her middle. Once again she was keenly aware of how close she was to him, near enough to see the dark flecks in his brown eyes.
“You’re gifted with medicine.” He searched her face, making a slow circle from her forehead to her cheek to her chin. And then to her lips.
She was sure her face must be red. She lowered her head, knowing it was a vain attempt to hide herself, and she spoke rapidly to cover her embarrassment at reacting so strongly to his nearness. “At Marienthron I was responsible for the herb garden and making the medicine. I studied the ancient recipes well. Besides, I helped my Aunt Lena in the infirmary.”
“I think we’ll keep you here at the monastery to be our doctor.” His voice was low.
Wolfgang stepped into the room and loomed above them, his reproach radiating from his tense posture.
“You may call upon me, Doctor Luther, anytime you are ill.” She wished her voice didn’t sound so breathy. “It’s the least I can do in payment for the kindness you have shown us.”
“The good news is that you’ll soon have homes.”
She handed him the Obstwasser again, nodding at it and indicating he should take another drink.
“Finally I may have convinced several of Wittenberg’s wealthy families to take you and the others.” He lifted the jug to his lips.
“Then there are no husbands for us?” Disappointment slithered through her. If Doctor Luther couldn’t find noble husbands among the many people he knew, how would she accomplish such a feat when she knew no one?
“I’m still searching. But in the meantime you’ll move out of the Black Cloister into homes where your basic needs will be met and you won’t slowly starve to death.” His eyes held an apology, as though he regretted his inability to provide for them better.
“You’ve done all you can,” she replied. Of course, she’d wondered over the past week why he had so little. He was Doctor Luther. Surely he could command payment for his preaching, teaching, and writings. But from the way things appeared, he had no steady income whatsoever.
“My servant, Greta, must come with me,” she said.
He regarded her solemnly. “In her condition I’m not sure if that will work—”
“I cannot abandon her when she’s in such great need.”
He paused as if considering her request.
“Please, Doctor Luther?”
A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Ah, I see you are capable of asking when it suits you.”
“Occasionally.” She smiled in return. His brown eyes regarded her with rare pleasure. And that strange warm grip once again tightened in her middle. She felt her cheeks flush again and focused on the lute still lying in her lap.
Her mind returned to what Wolfgang had just told her about the revival of the death warrant against Doctor Luther. “These families”—she spoke hurriedly to cover her reaction to him—“are they sympathetic to your cause and willing to break the law to accommodate us?”
A shadow descended over his face. “They support my reforms now. But I don’t know how long they’ll stay with the cause after I’m handed over to Rome. When the flames of the stake stand before them, it will be easy to recant rather than die.”
And what would happen to her and the other sisters if the German princes finally arrested Luther? Would they be imprisoned and killed too?
“As servants in prominent Wittenberg households,” he said, as if sensing her fear, “my hope is that you’ll escape detection.”
Servants? Her insecurities about the future evaporated. “You’re mistaken, Doctor Luther. We’re not intending to live as servants.”
“But of course you will. What did you expect? To be entertained as royal guests?”
She stiffened. “We’re nobility.”
With narrowing eyes he took another swallow of Obstwasser, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “The burghers have agreed to take you in as servants in their households. Be grateful, Katharina, that they’re willing to risk having you at all.”
She stood and shook the dust from her habit. “I’ve not put my life in great peril to end up as a common laborer.”
“Well, your majesty, I’m sorry you’ll have to descend from your throne.” He struggled to rise. Wolfgang rushed to his side and helped him to his feet.
“I will not work as a servant,” she stated with more calmness than she felt.
“You don’t have a choice.”
A scream of agony came from a far part of the cloister and ricocheted off the walls.
Without a word of leave, Katharina rushed to the stairwell, to the sound of slapping footsteps. Several of the nuns were racing down the steps, their habits flying behind them.
“Tell me who is screaming and why!” she called to them.
“It’s Greta,” one of the Zeschau sisters responded over her shoulder. “Abbot Baltazar has captured Thomas.”
“Ave Maria.” Katharina’s heart slammed against her ribs. She raced after the others, the drumbeat of dread increasing with each step she took. As much as her mind screamed to lock herself away in her cell rather than face the abbot, she stumbled out the front door of the cloister into a gathering of onlookers standing in the drizzle. She shouldered her way to the front but then stopped short, next to Margaret and Greta.
“And there is our Sister Katharina.” Abbot Baltazar stood next to a wagon. His loose tunic and scapular couldn’t hide his bulky middle. And his black hood couldn’t hide his bulbous nose and overlarge bloodshot eyes that were now trained on her. Rather than covering his hands in the wide mouths of his sleeves, he had them folded at his chest, revealing abnormally long fingernails. “Your Aunt Magdalena sends her greetings from the cloister prison.”
Although the news about Aunt Lena didn’t come as a surprise, regret pooled rapidly inside, making her wish she’d tried harder to change Aunt Lena’s mind about escaping with them. “You must release her, Father Abbot. She’s not to blame for our leaving.”
Standing next to the priest were several peasants who had worked in and around Marienthron. Their weathered faces were hard and unsmiling, and they kept glancing at Abbot Baltazar as if awaiting his orders.
“Oh, but Sister Katharina, she has already confessed her transgressions.” Abbot Baltazar’s smile was thin; the fatherliness of his voice was too sweet. “We also have custody of Leonard Koppe’s servant, and he has made many confessions too.”
Greta sucked in a quivering breath.
Margaret put a steadying hand on the girl, whose face had the pallor of death.
Abbot Baltazar nodded to his men. They turned to the back of the wagon, lifted out the body of a man, then tossed him into the muddy street. He lay unmoving, hands and feet bound.
An anguished cry slipped from Greta’s lips, and she lunged forward. Margaret clutched the girl’s robe. Greta resisted for only a moment before she twisted away and retched.
Katharina stared at the man, and her stomach churned with revulsion. It was merchant Koppe’s servant, Thomas, but he was barely recognizable. His feet were blackened and char
red, evidence of foot roasting. His fingers had been smashed by the thumbscrew, his back mutilated by hot irons. The once-handsome face was bruised and smeared with blood.
How had the abbot managed to capture Thomas—unless Thomas had gone back to the abbey to seek out the father of Greta’s baby and to avenge her?
“What good is a dead witness?” Doctor Luther called from behind her as he elbowed his way forward, trailed by a breathless Wolfgang.
“Martin Luther?” Abbot Baltazar eyed him, then raised his brow at his servants.
“I am he,” Doctor Luther replied. He hadn’t pulled up his hood against the cold drizzle and instead exposed the full fury in his eyes and the anger in his face. “I don’t need to ask who you are. I can already guess.”
Abbot Baltazar’s fleshy lips curved into a smile.
“You’re a servant of the devil,” Luther continued. “Only the devil’s servant could torture a man the way you have this one.”
Abbot Baltazar’s smile turned brittle, and with the flick of his fingers and long fingernails, he motioned to the peasants he’d brought with him.
The laborers began to creep toward Doctor Luther. Their hands touched their sheathed knives. Katharina’s body tensed with the same urgency she’d experienced the night of their escape. “Beware, Doctor Luther,” Katharina said with a nod toward the men. Abbot Baltazar wouldn’t dare attempt to seize Doctor Luther, would he? Not now in the daylight in front of a growing crowd.
Doctor Luther eyed the men, then pinned a steady gaze on Abbot Baltazar. “You’ve killed one man. Isn’t that enough?”
“Koppe’s servant isn’t facing eternal damnation yet.” Abbot Baltazar kicked Thomas in the back. The bloody mass grunted. “But we castrated him, and he’ll soon face judgment.”
Castrated? Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Katharina crossed herself and tried to push down the bile in her throat.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” Doctor Luther demanded, straightening his broad shoulders and rising to an imposing height. Wolfgang had unsheathed a knife and had it pointed toward the peasants moving nearer.
