by Jody Hedlund
Luther rubbed his sleeve across his forehead and wiped off the sheen of perspiration. “I can’t leave. I won’t slink away like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs.”
“It’s not defeat,” Pastor Bugenhagen said as he paced behind Melanchthon and Jonas and rubbed his long beard. “It’s only a new location where you’ll be safe to continue to write and preach.”
Luther blew a frustrated breath. How could he stand alone against the advice of his friends? Especially when they were right? The princes would likely sacrifice him to Rome. The recent news hadn’t been encouraging. Elector Frederick might be willing to persuade the other princes in Luther’s favor, but first Luther had to promise to stop encouraging monks and nuns to leave their monasteries.
“Elector Frederick knows I won’t stop helping my brothers and sisters escape the bondage of their convents any more than I’ll stop preaching against the relics that fill his Castle Church.” Luther took a swig of his beer, trying to ignore the unsettled rumble in his stomach.
“Our elector has shown great patience with you already, Martinus.” Pastor Bugenhagen paused his pacing, and his kind eyes regarded Luther. “He could have turned you over to Abbot Baltazar instead of claiming that he was ignorant in the matter of the nuns. The elector knows as well as any of us that you helped them.”
Luther shifted on the cool stone bench. “Prince Frederick is sly. He plays the political game well enough by keeping out of the thick of the conflict.” A courier had brought word from Torgau, from the home palace of Elector Frederick, that Abbot Baltazar had demanded the return of the nuns. The wise elector had informed the priest that he never interfered in such matters and that he would leave judgment to the church authorities.
“Even in hiding you’ll still be able to give us your guidance,” Pastor Bugenhagen said.
“Just as I did when I was hiding in Wartburg?” Luther couldn’t keep his voice from rising with his ire. “And look what happened. Riots. Disorder. Iconoclasm. Near anarchy.”
Jonas snorted. Sprawled on his bench, arms behind his head, he was the only one not sweating. “We didn’t have doctrines as clearly defined then as we do now.”
“If Martinus leaves,” Melanchthon said from his spot on the long bench next to Jonas, “then every crazy Zwickau prophet will descend on Wittenberg claiming to have the newest spiritual revelation.”
Luther raised his eyes to the blue sky that showed through the new leaves above him. He’d done nothing for which he should be ashamed. He’d proclaimed the truth—that indulgences wouldn’t free souls from purgatory, that only God’s grace could. But the pope needed the steady income from the sales of such false documents to support his extravagant lifestyle, a lifestyle Luther had been sickened by during his pilgrimage to Rome many years ago.
But the sad truth was, no one questioned the pope’s authority and lived to tell about it. The martyrs who had come before him were proof enough of that. So far he’d taken cover behind the cloak of the elector. But he felt certain that God would not have him hide this time. He must boldly proclaim the freedom that came from a life lived for God. “I cannot hide from danger again. Once was all I can stomach. Now I must stand before death and look the devil in the face.”
“If you die, what will happen to the cause?” Melanchthon’s voice was somber.
Luther’s stomach roiled. What would happen? That question had plagued him night and day for the past year. When he was killed, would these men, his closest advisors, be able to withstand the pressure to recant the truth? Would they stay strong together against adversity? What if everything they’d achieved was destroyed—everyone and everything burned, obliterated for all time?
Surely death would come only when God was finished with him on this earth—and not before. Until then he must not cower from the work that needed to be done.
He took a deep breath of the fresh spring air. “Since Christ shed His blood and died for me, how can I not, for His sake, place myself in danger? We must say, ‘Satan, if you frighten me, Christ will give me courage; if you kill me, Christ will give me life.’ ”
A child’s scream from the cloister yard interrupted the start of his sermon. Melanchthon arose at once and sprinted across the yard toward the area where his daughter lay slumped in the tall grass, crying.
Luther stood with a start at the thought that sweet Anna might be hurt. He rushed after Melanchthon, who now knelt next to the little girl and had begun examining her.
“What happened?” Luther asked. “How’s she hurt?”
Melanchthon ran his fingers along Anna’s leg, and when he pulled them back, they were coated in blood. The young professor stared at the blood, and his already-pale face turned ashen.
“What is it, my good man?” Luther towered above his friend. But Melanchthon’s bloody fingers shook and he didn’t respond. Luther knelt next to Anna, who turned her big eyes on him, the tears streaking her chubby cheeks, and her sobs tearing his heart. “Shh, darling.” He brushed a hand across her feathery hair and smoothed it off her face. “You’ll be just fine. You’ll see.” At the same time he gently shifted the hem of her skirt to reveal a jagged gash. One glance at the nearby bricks that had fallen from the crumbling ledge of the cloister walkway told him what had happened. She’d cut herself on one of the pieces of brick that littered the grass.
He studied the cut again, noting the way the tender flesh had split and formed a gaping white crevice amid the blood. The wound was deep and would need stitching.
Melanchthon gulped in a breath of air and looked at his daughter’s leg again. But then covering his mouth, he turned and gagged.
If Anna hadn’t been in so much pain, Luther would have been tempted to tease his friend for his weak stomach. But with Anna’s pitiful, confused cries echoing around them, Luther scooped her into his arms and cradled her against his chest, careful not to bump her leg. As he rose, her wispy, fair hair tickled his chin, and her arms closed around his neck. At her complete trust and willing affection, his heart swelled with praise for the God who’d designed the beauty of infancy. And something else rose within him—a tender longing to experience the arms of his own child wrapped tightly around his neck.
“You’ll be just fine, darling,” he whispered and then pressed a kiss against her head. He started across the yard toward the infirmary. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”
Anna’s sobs softened but her body still shuddered.
“Wolfgang,” he called over his shoulder to his manservant, who was hovering in the shade of the arched walkway. “We’ll need a physician to do some stitches.”
His servant nodded gravely and bounded toward the gateway that led to the street. Luther carried Anna inside and situated himself on a bench in the infirmary. Although Melanchthon joined them minutes later, Luther didn’t relinquish the girl, and Anna seemed content to rest in his arms as Brother Gabriel pressed a warm cloth against her wound.
As they waited for the physician to arrive, Luther sang softly to her until she stopped crying. Melanchthon leaned against the wall with his head down, berating himself over and over for not paying better attention to Anna and for bringing her along in the first place. He’d only thought to give his wife, who was heavily pregnant with their second child, a break from the busy toddler.
“You’re a good father,” Luther said. “This was just an accident.”
Luther stroked Anna’s head, her hair silky beneath his fingers, and again the longing to hold a child of his own stirred within him. Before he could make sense of his feelings or formulate a response, he was startled by the sight of Katharina von Bora striding through the infirmary door with Wolfgang on her heels. He hadn’t seen her since she’d left the Black Cloister to live with the Reichenbachs, and their parting hadn’t been cordial in light of her displeasure over the new living arrangements.
As she hastened across the room toward him, Luther couldn’t prevent himself from gaping at her new appearance. She looked like a different
person in her worldly garments that did nothing to hide her slim waist, curved hips, and full bust that had once been concealed by her shapeless habit. Without her wimple and veil, he could see that her hair was a light honey color. She wore a linen cap and had attempted to tie back her hair, but strands still fell in soft waves around her face. Her features had been delicate and pretty even with the severity of the wimple, but now that her face was freed from the tight constriction, her skin glowed, and her cheeks and lips had a fullness that hadn’t been there before.
Luther’s mouth felt dry and his tongue heavy, as though he’d been fasting for days. He couldn’t formulate the question to ask why she was there.
As if anticipating his question, Wolfgang spoke through heaving breaths. “The physician was busy tending the mayor’s gout—”
“I offered to come in his stead,” Katharina interrupted. With a swish of her skirts, she stepped around Luther’s outstretched legs and lowered herself onto the bench next to him. She surveyed Anna, who was huddled against his chest, lifted the warm cloth on the wound, and studied the cut for a moment before replacing the makeshift bandage.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Luther.” Wolfgang hovered above him. Sweat flattened his dark hair against his forehead, and his fierce eyes silently rebuked Katharina.
She ignored Wolfgang and instead caressed Anna’s arm. “You’re a brave girl, Liebchen.” The tenderness of her expression, although meant to soothe the girl, had a calming effect upon Luther too. “I’m here to make you feel better,” she assured Anna, who stared at Katharina with open curiosity.
Katharina lifted her gaze and finally met Luther’s. Her eyes widened, and the pure blue seemed to flicker with confusion for a moment before she dropped her attention back to Anna, a flush moving up her cheeks. Was his reaction to her appearance that obvious? He shifted on the bench in sudden embarrassment himself.
“Maybe we should wait for the physician,” Melanchthon said.
“He may not be available for another hour.” Katharina rose and started across the infirmary toward the shelves, which still contained a few supplies. “I may not be a physician, Herr Melanchthon, but I worked for years in the Marienthron infirmary and am quite competent at doctoring.”
She paused and looked at Melanchthon. When he finally nodded, she briskly collected several vials and set to work at the long table, concocting whatever it was she needed.
“I’ll give your daughter a tincture that will make her sleep,” Katharina said as she crossed again to Anna. “Once I know she won’t awaken, I’ll work on her leg.”
Luther’s shoulders relaxed at her words. And as she interacted again with Anna, coaxing her to drink the tincture, his admiration grew. He liked Katharina’s tenderness, her gentle smile, and her ability to put Anna at ease. She was a good doctor. His thoughts traveled back to the time she’d doctored him during one of his episodes. A warm ache stole through him at the memory of her touch that afternoon. The feel of her skin against his had awakened a longing for a woman in a way he couldn’t remember experiencing before, even during the days of his youth.
It didn’t take long for Anna to fall asleep. Katharina made quick use of the window of opportunity to work on the girl. She cleaned the wound and sewed several small stitches. When she finished, she bent over Anna and stroked the girl’s cheeks. He couldn’t stop staring at the bare stretch of Katharina’s neck and the loose tendril floating there. The skin seemed to beckon him to graze it, but the very thought of such brazenness made him squirm.
He cleared his throat, hoping he didn’t look as foolish as he felt. “I didn’t know the color of your hair was so fair.”
She smiled. “Neither did I.”
“Then you’re adjusting to normal life?”
“Well enough.” Something in her tone told him she would have complained about her living situation with the Reichenbachs had they been alone.
Anna was still asleep, but Katharina continued to stroke the girl’s cheek. “I suppose it must be a relief to be out of the barn and back in your own bed.”
“I didn’t mind staying in the barn for you.” His voice came out breathier than he’d intended. What was wrong with him? His mind scrambled for something to say, anything that could cover the awkwardness of his admission.
She spoke before he could. “You seem to have a natural way with children.”
He loved the way Anna was snuggled against his chest, and he couldn’t resist caressing her hair again. “I’ve been with her since she was born. She’s like a daughter to me; I suppose as close to a daughter as I’ll ever get.”
“Maybe you’ll have your own one day.”
As much as he wished he could agree with her, he could only smile wryly. “I think you’re forgetting something.”
She lifted her innocent eyes to his and quirked a brow.
“The natural God-given order is to have a wife before begetting children.”
She rapidly dropped her attention to Anna, and her cheeks flushed a faint pink.
He wanted to pummel his palm against his forehead at his donkey-brained comment. Melanchthon’s frown only confirmed the stupidity of his words and his inadequacy in talking with women, especially a refined woman like Katharina.
“Have you any news about my maidservant, Greta?” Katharina had the grace to change the subject and ease his discomfort. Her eyes held a hopefulness that made him wish he could give her good news, but instead he shook his head.
“Where could she have gone?” Katharina persisted.
“Unfortunately, there aren’t many options for an unchaperoned woman.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she released a long sigh that had a hint of chamomile.
“We must commit her into God’s hands,” he urged, wishing he could do more to help Katharina find this wayward servant, touched that she even cared.
She was silent for a long moment, and he had the feeling that his time with her was coming to an end. The thought filled him with more regret than he cared to admit.
“Thank you for coming,” he whispered.
“I’ll come anytime.”
“Even when you’re angry at me?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Perhaps I’m not as angry as I once was.”
Luther followed her gaze. A finely dressed young man leaned against the doorframe. His smooth face was familiar, but it took a moment to remember his name. “Jerome Baumgartner.”
The man straightened and stepped into the room, then gave a slight bow. “Doctor Luther.”
At the sight of Jerome, Katharina’s lips parted in a soft smile, and light filled her eyes.
A weight settled on Luther’s chest.
Baumgartner had the same dashing aura about him he’d always had. “What are you doing here, Baumgartner?” Luther demanded.
Baumgartner flipped Katharina a grin. “My dear Katharina needed an escort, and I very willingly offered her my service.”
“Wolfgang was escort enough.”
“Not for a lady like Katharina.”
Her smile widened at his flattery. “He’s staying with the Reichenbachs, and I’ve had plenty of opportunities to gain his acquaintance over the week since his arrival.”
Plenty of opportunities? “Find another place to stay, Baumgartner.” Luther glared at the man.
“He’ll do no such thing.” Katharina stood and Luther glimpsed the admiration in her eyes as she faced Jerome. “He’s quite the gentleman in every way.”
Luther snorted. “Baumgartner has a reputation, but it’s not as a gentleman.”
“And I suppose you’re now the expert on what it means to be a gentleman?” Her words, although said with a smile, had a sting to them that he didn’t like. Was she putting him down for his class?
He stiffened at the insult whether she intended one or not. “You’re right. I’m not a gentleman. But at least I’ve retained my integrity.”
She didn’t reply in words, but her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Jerome Bau
mgartner was the kind of man a woman like Katharina prized. He was nobly born, wealthy, handsome, young, and he had an opinion of himself that was bigger than the Vatican.
Baumgartner would make the perfect match for a proud woman like Katharina von Bora. Indeed, he could think of no man more suited.
“The rumors get bigger every day,” Margaret said as she prodded the soaking linens with the handle of her battledore.
Katharina leaned into the cushion of grass along the shore of the Elbe River. The June sun bathed her face with its warmth. The companionable laughter of other women nearby mingled with the rippling of the wide but gentle river. The grassy plain that led to the walls of Wittenberg was dotted with children playing and running, free of the crowded confines of the city. She took a deep breath of contentment.
Margaret straightened and towered over her as tall and thin as a willow branch. Without her wimple and headband, her face had lost some of its severity, even though she still wore her short dark hair pulled back tightly under a head cap.
“I shall not mind in the least if the rumors come true.” Katharina combed her fingers through her own hair that had come loose and tickled her neck, and she gazed at the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky. Although she offered extra prayers at the Divine Hours for considering her appearance, she still fought the new feelings of womanliness and couldn’t deny she rather liked them. “Indeed,” she said, relishing the breeze against the bare skin on her arms where she’d pushed up her sleeves, “I shall be a very happy woman should the rumors come true.” Her time teaching the Reichenbach girls had only intensified her longing for daughters of her own.
“You wouldn’t like the rumor I overheard this morning.” Margaret’s kind eyes brimmed with worry.
“The ladies are jealous, just like Elsa.” But Elsa was more than jealous. She’d become unbearable. If Jerome hadn’t made frequent use of his charming influence over the woman, Katharina was sure Elsa would have found a way to make her work as hard and as long as humanly possible.
