Luther and Katharina (14 page)

“The abbot is the bigger brute. He's the devil's sword.”

“Let's go, Martinus.” Jonas straddled his horse. “You'll have plenty of time later for whispering endearments to Katharina.”

A rippling of guffaws among the men sent heat through her.

Margaret was already mounted sidesaddle in front of Jonas, her wide gaze taking in the intimacy of Katharina's position with Doctor Luther.

Katharina snatched her hands away and hid them among the folds of her skirt.
Margaret, dear Margaret, this isn't what you think,
she wanted to say. Instead she took a step away from Doctor Luther.

He took the reins of his horse from Melanchthon and then reached for Katharina.

She backed toward Jonas and Margaret. Her mind whirled, her heart strangely conflicted about what she knew she must do. “Margaret needs to ride with you, Doctor Luther.”

He stopped. His gaze bore into hers, searching, questioning.

“It would be for the best.” She hoped the darkness masked her confusion.

“What's best, Kate?” His tone was suddenly tense.

She straightened her shoulders. Margaret was in love with him. If he didn't realize it, she must make him see it. And Jerome was best for her. Did Doctor Luther still doubt her choice?

As if he'd heard her thoughts, anger flashed in his eyes like lightning in a midnight sky.

He raised a hand toward Margaret, and his face turned into a stone mask. As Margaret eagerly slid off Jonas's horse into Doctor Luther's arms, Katharina looked away.

Only after Margaret was perched with Doctor Luther on his horse did Katharina attempt to speak. “I'm in debt to your kindness for coming to our rescue—”

“I didn't do it for you.” Doctor Luther dug his heels into his horse.

Jonas snorted. “That's right, old man. You did it for your good health.”

“Nevertheless,” she called to Doctor Luther's retreating back, “I'm grateful for your intervention.”

This time he didn't respond except to spur his mount faster.

“T
he Bundschuh again.” Luther nodded toward the side of the road to the calf-length rawhide shoe tied by its long leather strips to the top of a crude post. With nothing around but fields and wildflowers, the tall beam and shoe were strangely out of place.

“As their numbers grow, they're becoming more daring.” Melanchthon reined his horse next to the pole.

Luther wiped the perspiration on his forehead. What in heaven's name had ever compelled him to begin a preaching expedition around Saxony during the heat of the summer? All his friends had told him traveling was too dangerous. They'd warned against leaving Wittenberg. They'd pleaded with him not to go now. Not when the princes were ready to turn him over to Rome should the pope agree to address their grievances. Not when the princes had given Elector Frederick three mandates, the foremost of which was the prohibition of seditious preaching.

Word had reached Wittenberg recently that their greatest adversary, Duke George, had hoped the Diet of Nuremberg would strip Frederick of his possessions and his rank in the empire for not enforcing the Edict of Worms and for not dealing with heretics in his kingdom. But the only discipline Frederick had received was a scathing letter from the pope.

The outcome of the Diet had incensed Duke George, and now he intended to do everything within his power to destroy the heretics himself and devastate Frederick in the process. He'd already begun imprisoning the monks and priests in his territory who had forsaken their vows in order to marry. He'd recalled his students from the universities under the influence of the reforms. Worst, he'd ordered all copies of the recently translated New Testament to be given up to magistrates and burned.

Luther shifted wearily in his saddle as the high sun beat on his back. Deep inside he knew the real reason he'd left Wittenberg. He still keenly felt Katharina's rejection the night of the rescue a fortnight ago. He supposed it was a good thing she hadn't known how crazy her disappearance had made him, how he would have slipped into one of his melancholic moods except that he'd known he couldn't, that he had to find her first. His wildly beating heart hadn't slowed until he'd finally freed her bonds and pulled her into his arms.

She'd responded to him, or at least he thought she had. But perhaps she'd only reacted out of relief. Perhaps she would have thrown herself into any rescuer's arms. Whatever the case, he knew now that he'd made more of the encounter than he should have. When she'd turned down his offer to ride with him, she'd sent him a message with resounding clarity—she wasn't planning to encourage anything beyond simple friendship with him. She'd already chosen the man she wanted, and he wasn't that man.

Not that he'd offered himself. Not that he wanted more. He didn't.

Even so, he'd felt the sting of her rejection deeply.

With a sigh he stared at the peasant shoe—tattered with use, stained brown from the soil.

Melanchthon stared too. Perspiration plastered his rust-colored curls to his temple. “What message do you think the Bundschuh is trying to send?”

“Perhaps it's their call for peasants to unite in conspiracy.”

“Who do you think is leading it? Karlstadt? Müntzer?”

Luther shook his head. “I think there are too many to count now.” He'd reprimanded both of the former professors for their violent methods. But they had persisted and now appeared to be stirring the peasants with their preaching.

He lifted his gaze to a nearby field, to the laborers weeding among the new barley. Their bent backs and wide-brimmed hats soaked in the unrelenting sun. Their lot consisted of hard work, poverty, and cruelty. The burden placed upon them by bishops, abbots, princes, and nobility exceeded the capacity for endurance. Several years ago he'd chastised the leaders in his tract “To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation.” But they hadn't heeded his advice.

The Bundschuh had good cause to resort to flails and clubs and pitchforks. Yet no matter how justified, rebellion was something he couldn't condone.

Melanchthon was watching the working peasants too. Anxiety clouded his pale features. “We'd best spur our mounts onward.”

They dug in their heels and urged their steeds down the wagon tracks that had worn a path through the long grass of the meadow. They had trotted just past the next curve in the road when a raucous group came into view, heading in their direction.

Luther slowed his horse and took in the peasant garb of most of the men—the shabby hose, long and patched doublets cinched by girdles with hooks for holding pouches and knives. Some had stockings on their heads. Others wore caps with turned-up utility flaps, combs and spoons tucked inside.

Their laughter died when they spotted the approaching riders and caught sight of Luther's habit, which signaled the clergy they'd come to despise. They halted behind the outstretched arms of a large, thick-shouldered man who was missing one eye, the puckered skin of his eye socket grotesquely empty. As if on cue, the group spread out, making the road impassable.

Luther pulled on his reins. Melanchthon's horse whinnied next to him.

The leader's face hardened with unfriendliness, as did the other browned and weathered faces, some with scars, others missing teeth.

Luther slid his hand underneath his cowl and ran his fingers over the hilt of his dagger. Perhaps he should have shed his monk's garments as most of his friends had long since done—at least for the duration of his trip.

“Good day.” The cheerfulness of Melanchthon's greeting was forced. The tightness of it matched the growing tautness in Luther's muscles.

Dark, angry gazes answered.

“Fine midsummer day, wouldn't you agree?” Luther remarked, peering around at the lush green of the countryside, searching for an escape route.

The one-eyed peasant at the head of the group unsheathed a knife. He held it out, its length surpassing the limitation of any city hall measuring knife Luther had ever seen. “You have to pay a toll to pass.”

Luther inched his dagger out of its leather casing. “What kind of toll?”

“A monk's toll.”

Their best way of escape was back the way they'd come. On their horses they could easily outrun the peasants. “How much do you want?”

“Everything you have.” The peasant nodded at their horses.

Could these peasants be nothing more than a wandering band of rebels out to rob them of their worldly goods? “I don't think you know who I am.”

“You're nothing more than a lying, cheating monk.”

“I'm Doctor Martin Luther.”

“How do we know you're Martin Luther?”

A man as thin as a skeleton cracked a gap-toothed grin. “That's him. I seen him preach over in Mansfeld once.”

The leader stared at Luther for a long moment. Finally he lowered his dagger. “Martin Luther? Well, why didn't you say so?” The man turned to his companions. “I'll be quartered—it's Martin Luther.”

Melanchthon breathed a heavy sigh, one that echoed Luther's relief.

Excitement wound through the group.

Melanchthon leaned toward Luther. “You're their champion, their hero.”

Luther nodded, but his friend's words unsettled him. He championed their spiritual freedom, the liberation of their souls from the heavy chains the church had placed on them. He sympathized with their plight under the tyranny of the rich. He was of peasant stock himself. But he couldn't support violence to bring about the changes they needed.

When the leader asked him to join them for a meal and the others chorused their approval, Luther couldn't refuse. They traveled a short distance off the road to a makeshift camp with a scattering of tattered tents alongside a creek. The peasants had erected a flag of the Bundschuh in the center, and Luther realized these men were responsible for the other Bundschuh symbols they'd observed along the road.

At the barking commands of the men, a handful of women hurried to prepare a meal and serve their guests. In the cool shade of the woodland, the men relayed one tale after another of the injustices they had experienced, similar to stories Luther had heard all too often, stories of punishment for fishing in the elector's pond, hunting in a prince's forest, and gathering firewood in unauthorized land.

They were most upset about the case of one of their own, a forester who'd been gored in the leg by a boar while on a hunt for the elector. He'd lost his leg and his livelihood. But the magistrates had refused to give him any of the compensation they owed him.

Luther tossed the mutton bone onto the dwindling fire, then licked his fingers. He hadn't questioned where the peasants had acquired their feast. He didn't want to know.

“I understand your complaints,” he said, rising from the log that had served as a bench for his meal. “And maybe I can intervene on behalf of your forester.”

“We only want the lords to observe their agreements,” the one-eyed leader said, then he sank his teeth into another juicy bite of mutton. The heavy haze of smoke drifting around them carried the lingering aroma of roasted lamb and water chestnuts.

“They aren't held accountable the way they need to be.” Luther's attention returned to a ragged woman on the edge of the camp. He'd noticed her earlier and was still puzzled by her. She moved listlessly with vacant eyes. He assumed she was like the other women, a slave by day and a camp Jezebel by night. Yet somehow she didn't fit. Her features were too pretty, too fresh, too delicate to be those of a peasant woman accustomed to deprivation and hard labor in the fields.

“I'll leave you with one final word.” He stretched. “A sensible ruler is rare, a good one even rarer. By and large they are the dumbest fools and greatest villains on earth. Still, the Lord expects you to honor and fear them.”

They grumbled. “But you'll take up our cause, won't you?”

“Rest assured, I'll do whatever I can.”

When he and Melanchthon were finally on their way again, heaviness weighed him down.

“They're a despised and unhappy lot,” Luther said, spurring his horse to a trot through the tall grass and the whir of dragonflies.

“I fear they're ready to act first and think later.” Melanchthon wiped his pointed goatee, rubbing out the remains of their meal. “And the consequences of such rashness will be unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Now that the light of truth, so long suppressed by the pope and his followers, has begun to shine brightly again, the tyranny of Rome and her followers has become visible. Unless they reform, I too fear revolt is imminent.”

“Perhaps it's time for you to write another tract, one that addresses both nobility and peasants, imploring them to seek peace.”

“You're right. And we'll pray. Prayer shall be our greatest weapon.” Luther urged his horse faster. The long summer day was on their side, but they would be wise to reach the safety of Dessau before eventide.

They rode for several more hours in peace, discussing the merits of education and the need to develop tools whereby they could easily teach doctrines of historic Christianity to more people, perhaps through a catechism. “And perhaps when we finish with that,” Luther said, his mind spinning with possibilities, “we could write a smaller catechism that would be designed for children, like Anna.”

“I'd like that very much,” Melanchthon replied wistfully, no doubt thinking of his daughter and the newborn babe he'd left behind to accompany Luther.

Luther had a momentary pang of guilt for pulling his friend away from his family. But the instant he thought of returning to Wittenberg, he could feel Katharina in his arms again, the crush of her supple body against his when he'd freed her from her bonds. He could feel the silk of her hair, the delicate curve of her ear, the warmth of her lips in his palm when he'd cupped her mouth to keep her from making a noise.

As quickly as the thoughts came, he pushed them aside. He didn't want to explore these new reactions to her. He wanted to keep that part of himself closed off as he had for so many years. But even if he tried not to think of how womanly she felt and looked, he pictured her anyway. He thought about her tenderness with Anna when the little girl had been injured, about how Katharina had come without being asked and had checked on Anna in the following days. He thought of how she'd doctored him. And he'd heard from others in town of her willingness to provide her physic services to anyone who needed them.