Luther and Katharina (11 page)

She pulled her hand away from him, but his gaze wouldn't let her go. She'd never had anyone speak to her so intimately, and she had no idea how to respond. Although Elsa apparently had learned the art of beguiling a man, the abbey had never schooled her in such matters.

Flustered, all she could manage was a shy smile.

“W
e all agree,” Melanchthon said. “You should go into hiding as soon as possible.”

The shade of the sprawling maple covered the faces of Luther's friends, but the heat of the May afternoon had wilted him. He'd thought the cloister yard would serve as a cool spot for their meeting, but the spring temperatures had grown unseasonably warm.

The innocent giggles of Melanchthon's young daughter, Anna, drew his attention to the center courtyard, where she was running and chasing a butterfly. At two she was hardly taller than the long grass that had sprung up in the cloister yard. Her fair hair with tints of Melanchthon's red shone in the sunlight, the wispy curls blowing in the warm breeze. Compared to the current dismal state of things, she was a buttercup in a field of weeds.

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.