CHAPTER 16

I promised Girt I would write. Immediately upon arrival, and then monthly, if possible, thereafter.

“What am I going to do with a letter without you to read it to me?” It was the afternoon after her wedding, and she was giggly. Flushed and distracted.

“It will be an incentive for you to learn. So we can spare Hans the embarrassment of reading all of our salacious details.”

“As if I would,” she said once her rosy face was permitted to leave the sleeves in which it was buried. “And just what exploits do you have planned in the great town of Wittenberg?”

“Nothing compared to yours, I’m sure. But —” and here I became solemn —“I have prayerful hope that God will provide such happiness for me as he has for you.”

“Oh, Kat!” Unable to contain her joy, she reached across the table and clasped my hands. Were we not under the curious gaze of Frau Dunkel, who wielded a broom with ferocious intent, Girt might have leapt across the table. “I could never have imagined such happiness could have been possible. If you’d told me years ago, when we were girls, that someday I would feel this . . . full. Like I’m about to burst.”

Frau Dunkel clucked her tongue, but I sensed amusement behind her show of disapproval.

“Sweet, sweet Sister,” I said, squeezing her fingers, “your happiness brings me the same. I wish Therese —”

“She’s found her own peace.”

We embraced, each of us shedding hot tears onto the other’s shoulder. Then laughing at the ridiculous display. Then crying again. More.

“Silly,” Girt said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “You’d think we’ve never said good-bye to anyone before.”

I kissed her cheek, promising to keep her in my prayers, and as I did, spied Hans waiting shyly in the doorway.

“Your husband’s here,” I said, gently turning her toward the door. In that instant, I was forgotten. Her tears dried; her steps quickened away from me. The last I saw of my dear friend Girt, she was hand in hand with the handsome Hans, bathed in the fullest light of day. When he led her out that door, he awakened a fear greater than any I’d experienced in my captivity or escape.

In all my longing for freedom, for choice, I’d shielded myself from the truth that neither would be afforded to a woman alone. How could I be free while dependent on strangers? How could I choose to be a married woman unless someone asked me to be such? All very well for a man like Luther to decide not to marry. As a woman, I’d have that decision made for me, and I had so little to sway attention to my favor.

At the age of twenty-four, I was neither young nor old. While my particular mix of features kept me from claiming true beauty, I could not accept the idea that I was homely enough to inspire pity. Not until I ventured beyond the convent walls did I realize the extent of my opinionative nature, my tendency to verbosity, the quickness of my wit —all of which no doubt made me a less-attractive prospect as a submissive wife. And judging by just the past moment, when Hans stood in the doorway, summoning Girt with little more than a clearing of his throat, I knew men wanted a woman prone to be sweet-natured and compliant.

Little had I known that I was neither.

The next morning, early enough to be closer to night, with a sack full of sausage and biscuits courtesy of Frau Dunkel, I stepped out of the Brummbär Inn and found myself, for the second time in only a week, being hoisted up into a farm cart. This time, however, I was given a seat on a plank affixed across the wagon bed, and instead of the affable Hans, the driver was a soured old man with the hallmark of being a silent traveling companion.

“I’m sorry there wasn’t any money for a proper carriage,” Luther said. He’d been waiting for me in the candlelight when I descended from my room an hour before. Now he remained on the ground, looking up at me —eerily reminiscent of the first time I saw him. “Do you have your things?”

I held up the canvas bag. “I have dinner and the clothes on my back.”

“And this.” He handed me a small purse. I could count the few coins within it through the silk. “More importantly, this.” A single folded sheet of paper, wax sealed. “A letter of introduction, bearing my testimony that you are a fine, upstanding Christian woman, worthy of the noble hospitality.”

A sobering truth dawned. “Are you not coming with me? You said you would escort me personally.”

A guarded look shadowed his face. “I’m afraid I cannot. My life, I’m sorry to say, is not entirely my own. At times it is best that I not be on the open roads.”

I dared not question further, not about his peril. I had enough of my own. “Are they expecting . . . Do they know me?”

“They are a family who gave generously when I asked for funds to bring you and the other women out of Marienthrone. One family of many, and I asked if some would be willing to open their home for a time, for those who would need a place to live.”

“And they said yes?”

“Why else would I be packing you away, having only recently become acquainted with your entertaining company?”

I was not sure whether or not to find irony in his words, but I did detect that he had not answered my question, so I posed it again.

“They did not refuse,” he said with assurance.

“So what am I to say when my carriage arrives at their door? Should we maybe toss in a couple of pigs? Or some bags of grain so they’ll think I’m just part of a delivery?”

“Nonsense,” Luther said, refusing to acknowledge my sarcasm. “Then old Hovart here would have to take you round to the back, and you’d get your shoes all muddy walking up to the house. No, better to arrive a perfectly respectable passenger, sent with a perfectly respectable introduction and reference of character. Oh, and one more thing.”

He stepped aside to reveal young Marina Dunkel, dressed in the cleanest dress I’d yet seen. Her hair was fashioned in two braids wrapped around her head, soon hidden by the hood of the cloak tied around her shoulders.

“A respectable lady travels with a companion,” Luther said. “After such a long time of sorority, I thought you might enjoy a bit of companionship.”

My heart swelled with gratitude. I myself hadn’t even realized the precipice of loneliness on which I teetered.

Marina offered a curtsy. “Will you have me, miss? I know I’ve been nothing but a hard worker all my life, but I’ve seen all sorts of society coming through the inn. I’ve served their food and changed their beds, sort of disappearing in the shadows, so I know a lot more than I should.”

“Of course I’ll have you!” To prove my enthusiasm, I stood and moved to the spot directly behind the driver, making a place for her on the board. I offered a quick prayer of contrition for envying the small bag she tossed into the bed, and Luther gave his hand in helping her over the wheel.

“I’ll visit you shortly, God willing. When I know it’s safe to do so.”

I clasped Marina’s hand and bowed my head as he prayed for our safe journey, then accepted his blessings. With a halfhearted slap of the reins, Hovart urged the team of workhorses into motion, and Marina and I lurched into each other.

“I’m sorry, miss,” she said, straightening herself, then bracing her arms on the plank to prevent another such collision.

“Do not apologize,” I said, giving eye to the pinkest of dawn peeking over the treetops. “I have a feeling this is the smoothest road we’ll experience all day.”

As it happened, I did not have a full day’s journey to endure. At midmorning, we stopped to refresh the horses, allowing them to graze in an open meadow and drink from one of the streams that fed into the Elbe River. Marina and I took advantage of the stop to get down from the wagon and walk a little, though not so far as to ever be out of Hovart’s sight. For Marina, I knew, this was no extraordinary activity. But for me, to be thus surrounded by God’s creation, I had to stop frequently to close my eyes and allow my ears to take an equal share of the awesome burden. This was a divine silence —no silence at all, really. Leaves that rustled in the breeze. Birdsong. My steps bending the grass.

We traveled one more hour before stopping to share the dinner sent by Frau Dunkel. Added to my simple meal of biscuits and sausage, Marina had cheese and fruit, with a jar of milk to share around, and sweet herbs to chew after. The horses rested here, too, as did Hovart, recovering from his disappointment that we had no beer.

Then it was just a little over an hour before the road took a turn, and the outline of a country estate rose up from the horizon.

“That cannot be,” I said, standing in my seat to get a better view. “Turn around; go back. This must be a mistake.”

The house was larger than either of the convents I’d called home. Windows stretched three stories high, and I counted twelve spanning from end to end. Two turrets rose above the slanted roof, with six chimneys interspersed between them.

“Perhaps there’s a cottage?” I mused aloud. “And we’re to be given shelter there?”

“Just what’s Mr. Luther directed,” Hovart said, unimpressed. “Taking you right up to the front door.”

Marina looked terrified, and I knew I would have to assume some role of protectiveness. I wondered what could possibly be written in the letter of introduction that would make such a family take me in. Still, I resolved in that moment to be worthy of whatever Luther knew of my breeding and character. I sat up straighter in my borrowed clothes, tucked away any wayward strands of hair, and touched the locket nestled at my throat. We were once such a family, living in such a house, generations before my birth. My blood was every bit as noble as that which coursed through the residents of this estate. More than that, Jesus Christ was the great equalizer of all us sinners.

“When we arrive,” I said to Marina, already affecting an authoritative lilt to my voice, “I am going to ask that you and I share a room. At the very least one with an antechamber, so that we will not be separated. I’ll explain that I depend on you to see to my needs.”

“Ja, Fräulein.”

And bless her for not asking what those needs might be, as I myself didn’t know. Nothing beyond the need of a companion, someone to speak out to in the night. She, however, sat straighter in her seat, her confidence promising an aptitude for fulfilling her duty. The moment our wagon crossed into the drive, a small gathering came out of the front door, presumably ready to greet us.

“That is Herr Philipp Reichenbach and his wife beside him, Elsa. Those wearing the red with the gold brocade.”

If she had not identified them by name, I could still have surmised the owners of the estate. Even from this distance, I recognized the fine quality of their clothing and the puffed-up stance that seemed to come with wealth.

“Our hosts.”

“The very same. I know for a fact that they are great friends of Herr Luther. They’ve come into the inn and had supper with him.”

“So they are kind.”

“They are generous,” Marina said, not confirming my assumption.

Before I could ask what she knew about the dozen or so people gathered around them —some most likely servants, but others dressed respectably —a man stepped into the midst. Even if he didn’t stand a good head taller than the others, he could not have escaped my attention. Each turn of the wheels —and there were so few left —brought him into sharper focus. Piercing eyes, a strong jaw, well-trimmed beard. All identifiable features, but they came together to introduce an exciting revelation.

Handsome.

Every assembled person, including my generous hosts, disappeared like ripples in a pond. I wanted to ask Marina, Who is he? Did he ever come to dine with Luther in Torgau? But by then we were close enough that he might have overheard my question. I allowed myself ten more clomps of the horses’ hooves to take in the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, and all the other attributes of a man’s figure that I had never before had occasion to consider because I’d never seen one dressed in a fashion so tailored to reveal it.

The wagon came to a stop, and I felt every eye upon me. His, as much as any other. A boy brought a set of rolling steps to the wagon, sparing me the indignity of climbing over its edge, and Herr Reichenbach himself lifted his hand to escort me to the ground.

“Katharina von Bora,” he said in a way that blended introduction and announcement. “Welcome to our home, to stay as our guest for as long as you like.” He kissed my hand and offered me over to his wife, a woman with a tall frame and sturdy figure. She kissed both of my cheeks and repeated her husband’s offer of hospitality.

Thus followed a round of names: Baron and Baroness Achter; Herr Stadtmueller and his wife, Marie; Lucas and Barbara Cranach . . . a host of others. My confusion must have been evident on my face, for at one point Reichenbach laughed and assured me that by the time our visit was over, I would be conversing with all of them as if we had been friends since the time of creation.

“And this,” he said with a point of finality, “is our neighbor Jerome Baumgartner, lately of Nuremberg.”

I waited, caught in that pause between the introduction of a man and his spouse. Were there any women left whose names I had not heard? Any who were not wearing a white servant’s cap and collar?

As if sensing my question, Jerome took my hand, bowed low over it, then looked up, our gazes meeting for the first time in such proximity.

“I am in awe of your sacrifice and courage.” His voice had a singular quality, almost like a whisper, but one that echoes from a dark corner. And his words —this compliment —rendered me an empty shell.

“Surely I’ve done nothing to deserve such regard.”

“Not to hear Luther tell it!” This from Reichenbach, with an accompanying clap of his hands, emitting a sound sharp enough to bring Jerome to stand upright. He’d meant it to be some kind of joke, or at least a humorous observation, and his friends rewarded him with a smattering of laughter.

“And this,” I said, finally able to perform some act of civility, “is Marina Dunkel. Some of you know her from the Brummbär Inn in Torgau. I hope it was not too presumptuous to ask her to accompany me.”

“Of course not,” Frau Reichenbach said. “You should have such a young lady to tend to you. Gretl —” she summoned one of the younger servants who had made her way toward the back of the crowd —“show Fräulein von Bora to her room. And the young Marina, too.” Then, back to me, “I’ll send a boy up with your bags.”

I smoothed my travel-worn, borrowed dress, glad to see Jerome now engaged in conversation with the baron. “I’m afraid I don’t have any bags. Only this.”

She took the letter of introduction but made no move to open it. “Go up with Gretl all the same, and have a lie-down. We’ve hours left until supper, and by then I shall have found you something suitable.”

Suitable.

There’d be no way to enter the house without walking past Jerome, and in the course of those few steps, I couldn’t decide if I desired him to look at me or remain focused on his conversation. I kept my attention on Gretl’s cap and was almost through the door when that voice summoned me.

“Fräulein?”

I stopped. Turned. “Yes?”

“I believe you are quite well suited to our company already.”