Luther and Katharina (36 page)

Katharina sprinkled more lavender water on the sheets she'd turned down. Then she dried her fingers in her hair.

Maybe he would like the scent of lavender in her hair too.

She checked the candle on the ledge. The puddle of melting tallow had grown steadily since she'd arrived in their new bedroom. She listened for his footsteps. Had he forgotten and gone to his old his cell?

After dinner she'd told him about moving their living quarters to the second story. He hadn't appeared happy with the news, but he'd nodded his acknowledgment before he resumed his discussions with their visitors.

With a sigh she lowered herself to the edge of the box bed and smoothed a hand across her undertunic. Her gaze sought the safety of her discarded skirt and bodice draped over the chest at the end of the bed. Perhaps she'd been too bold to presume he would come to her when he was clearly displeased with her management of their home.

Her heartbeat wavered but only for a moment. She must hold out hope that he would not let a petty disagreement stand between them. Surely he remembered their wedding night with as much longing as she did. Surely he would want to come to her and continue what they had begun.

She leaned over and reached for the pouch draped across her clothes. She pried open the string and pulled out the rolled paper her mother had given her. It was wrinkled and smudged and the red wax seal all but gone. But it was still her greatest treasure. If everything else failed—if she failed–she would always have her mother's gift to rely on.

The door creaked.

She sucked in a breath and jumped up.

Doctor Luther stepped in and closed the door behind him. He leaned back, his face hidden by the shadows of the room. For a long moment she could feel his eyes burning into her.

The air was suddenly charged. A shiver of delight whispered through her body, and she hugged her arms across her chest.

Finally he stepped away from the door and crossed toward the bed. He studied the barren room, only slightly bigger than the other cells. It was just as plain except for the bouquet of lavender she'd placed in a crock on the bedside table.

He fingered the end of the box frame and the freshly filled straw mattress. “I suppose you required one of the guests to build the bed as payment?”

“Pastor Bremer offered.”

“And I suppose you thought that my simple cell wasn't good enough, that you needed a bigger, fancier room?”

So he was still angry. She watched the muscles in his jaw work up and down. What could she do to win his favor again? Dare she approach him and hold him? Would her touch work to bridge their differences? Then would he realize how much she'd grown to care for him?

“As a matter of fact”—she took a step toward him—“I wanted to move here so we could have a little more privacy.”

Her fingers moved to his arm. She skimmed upward.

His muscles tensed, but he didn't pull away.

“I thought about you while you were gone,” she whispered.

He drew in a sharp breath. And then he leaned into her and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her against his chest.

The rapid thump of his heartbeat resounded in her ear, and she hoped it meant that he wanted to be with her as much as she did him. “I'm sorry for my harshness earlier,” he whispered. “I was a donkey, as usual. All I dreamed about every minute I was away from you was doing this…”

Lowering his mouth to hers, he took her with a passion that left her breathless with desire. His lips crushed hers, demanding and devouring until they were both panting with need.

Finally he broke away, pulling her more fully against his body, his heavy breaths sizzling in her ear. “God is my witness, I've been miserable without you—”

He suddenly stiffened and peered over her shoulder at the bed.

Slowly, almost ominously, he released her and reached for the rolled parchment she'd left on the bed. “What's this?”

Katharina's pulse raced at double speed as his fingers closed around the paper she'd carelessly discarded when he'd entered the room.

“It's nothing.” She tried to pull it from his grasp.

His grip tightened, and he backed away from her. “Tell me, Kate. What is it?” His voice was low.

“Please return it this instant.” She lunged for it.

He held it up high out of her reach. His eyes flashed with accusation. “Why in the name of all the saints do you have an indulgence?”

“How do you know it's an indulgence?” She tugged on his arm, needing to get the paper away from him before he had the chance to look at it more closely.

“I know an indulgence when I see one.” He yanked away from her. “Am I to be mocked in my own home by my wife?” His voice pounded her. “I have defied the pope and put my life in danger every day because of my stand against indulgences. And you—you dare to bring one into my home?”

Her legs trembled as she bumped against the bed. His anger was like a physical force slamming against her, pushing her away from him. “My mother gave it to me before she died, when I was just a little girl.”

“I don't care who gave it to you! I've fought against every adversity to eradicate indulgences. You know I hate them. Everyone knows. And yet you've harbored this idol anyway.” He waved the paper with such disgust that it could have been the very devil himself.

She stared at the sheet, her last link to her mother, to her family, to her nobility.

“Tell me, Kate.” His tone sagged with disappointment. “Do you really think this indulgence has the power to help you in any way?”

She hesitated. Did it? She didn't know anymore. Her title and her nobility hadn't helped her. Perhaps the indulgence was just as worthless.

“You don't need to say anything.” He started across the room to the window. “I already know your answer.”

Before she could move to stop him, he held the paper toward the flickering flame of the candle.

“No!” she cried. “I know you don't like them, but I've already given up so much for you—my status, my safety, my title. Must you demand this of me too?”

Flames burst to life at the edge of the sheet. Her heart stopped, and she could only watch it burn as a deep sense of loss seeped through her. The fire spread, its ravenous appetite consuming every word until it touched Doctor Luther's fingers. Only then did he let the flaming remnant flutter to the floor. Once it reached the ground, he stomped on it until only ashes littered the floor. Then he turned and stared at her with sadness. “Maybe it's time for you to stop holding on to your pride and your past.”

She tried to take a breath, to say something, anything, but she couldn't. The scent of burned paper chastised her.

He crossed the room and yanked open the door but then stopped. “Don't ever bring another indulgence into my house.” With a flap of his robe, he walked out and closed the door behind him.

She stared at the door and dragged in a slow, painful breath. Tears sprang to her eyes.

His anger and disappointment lingered in the air just as thick as the smoke.

She fell back onto the mattress and squeezed back hot tears. Blessed Virgin Mother, she'd angered her husband again. Was that forever to be the course of her marriage to Doctor Luther? She didn't want it to be, but apparently their differences were too large to surmount.

Her eyes grew blurry with the pool of tears that pressed for release, and yet she could clearly see the blackened remains of paper scattered on the floor. The acrid stench of the burning paper swirled around her, taunting her, reminding her once again of how tightly she'd clung to traditions, the old ways of doing things. She hadn't wanted to give up everything—the prescribed prayers, her title, her indulgence. But gradually they had been tugged from her grip whether she wanted to relinquish them or not. Was it finally time to let go of her own volition?

Luther stared at the murky liquid in his mug. It was as black as the night sky. He sloshed it around and then took another gulp. The Obstwasser burned a trail down his throat to his stomach.

He leaned back against the garden bench and closed his eyes. A soft breeze fanned his hot face. The chirping of the crickets sang to him, and the lingering perfume of violets wafted over him. Yet the balm of the summer night couldn't reach the tortured spot deep inside him. It couldn't calm his anger, the anger that had ignited when Wolfgang had reported to him all Katharina's activities during the weeks he'd been gone.

He'd ridden into the cloister needing her more than food, drink, or even another breath of air. He'd nearly fallen off his horse in his haste to reach her. In fact, during his entire trip to Torgau, he'd fought his constant thoughts of her. Whenever he'd been tempted to leave early, Melanchthon had reminded him of his calling to God's work and the need to prove himself faithful to the reforms.

Luther had tried to convince himself of the truth of Melanchthon's words. In the aftermath of the peasant revolts, he was doing all he could to appease both sides. Their cause needed his devoted attention now more than ever. He didn't need thoughts of Katharina interfering with his work.

“Ach.” He sat forward and took another sip from his mug.

His attention strayed to the dark window on the second story, the room where she'd waited for him. The candle was long extinguished. But the flames of his desire to be with her couldn't be doused, not even by his anger. And how could he stay angry with her when she'd said she'd missed him and thought about him when he was gone? The light in her eyes had welcomed him. She'd opened wide her arms for him. Even the bed…

Had he been too severe in handling the indulgence? Should he have gently instructed her in the ways of truth? She, like so many others, still had much to learn about the grace of the gospel.

He wrenched his gaze from the window.

Even if he could impart truth to her soul, they would always be at odds. He would remain a simple, poor man who could never shed his peasant roots. And even without her title, she would always be a noblewoman. Her blood would demand more wealth and prestige from him than he could give. How could she ever be happy with a man like him?

Luther tipped up his mug and drained the last of the liquid. Perhaps those who had opposed his marriage had been right. Maybe he'd been a fool to marry Katharina. And perhaps he'd been a bigger fool to think she would ever be content to live a simple life with him.

His stomach lurched with a sudden sharp pain. His body tightened, and nausea rose with a swiftness that propelled him to his feet. Heat rushed through his body, and dizziness followed on its heels. He was going to be sick. It had been a while since he was ill, and he was due for something. Only this time he'd been too distracted by his thoughts of Kate.

His stomach clenched, and he bent over. He heaved, the motion racking his body with such force he was sure his back would break. When he finished, he fell onto the bench and wiped his trembling arm across his mouth. That was all he had time to do before his stomach wrenched again. Pain coiled around him and squeezed tighter until he could hardly breathe.
Help me, O Lord. Help me.

He slipped off the bench into the puddle of his vomit. His mind swirled, and he struggled for a gasp of air. He slumped facedown on the ground. The pain was so intense he could almost embrace death to escape it. Almost.

And yet the thought of parting with Kate, the thought of never seeing her or holding her again was a torment far worse.

His moans echoed in the night and reverberated through his mind as if they belonged to another person. Grass filled his nostrils and mouth as he attempted to suck in air, but the constriction in his stomach wouldn't let him breathe.

He'd always known his days were numbered. He'd pictured himself burned at the stake or tortured on the rack but never dying alone in the cloister courtyard.

Lord, have mercy.
It was finally happening. He was going to meet his Maker.