CHAPTER 26

UNTIL I CAME into the home of Lucas and Barbara Cranach, I only thought I knew how grand a house could be. Theirs dwarfed the Reichenbachs’ in every way. Two grand halls, one specifically for dancing. One dining room with a table big enough to seat fifty people, and another more intimate one for the household. There was a ladies’ parlor, a gentlemen’s library, and a room designated for sitting in the morning sun. All of this, and two floors besides, with sumptuous hallways and spacious rooms. Eighteen on the second floor, with the nursery and servants on the third.

Accompanied by Luther, I arrived on the third of January, having celebrated Christmas and the New Year with those I had come to know as family, yet they put up no protest at my leaving. Rather, they made me a gift of a trunk, its lid covered in rich red leather, its hardware shining brass. I’d come to their home with all my belongings in a single drawstring pouch; I left the owner of three dresses, a hairbrush and mirror, a cloak and boots, two pair of shoes, and a host of undergarments besides. To my greater delight, though, I was also given the small writing desk, complete with paper and ink and quills.

“So you can keep in touch with us, dear,” Elsa said. Never mind that the ride from her house to the Cranachs’ took less than an hour’s time.

Still, when I stepped out of the coach in front of this home and watched as the footman retrieved my trunk, I felt nothing but a sense of belonging. I knew how to greet my hosts, how to incline my head, how to hold out my hand. Though penniless, I was not without breeding, and my time spent with a fine family reintroduced what I’d lost during my years in the convent. By now, I was no longer “one of the twelve.” My story had expanded beyond that of a former nun, now set free. I brought with me the tragic tale of a love affair, and the heartbreak that came of it. My new hosts knew me to be a teacher, a governess not out of necessity, but as a natural use for my education. I played no instrument, but had developed an appreciation for music as well as the other arts. The paintings displayed in the entry of the Cranach home were some of the finest I’d ever seen, beginning with an image of the magi visiting the Christ child, painted in a style I recognized.

“Appropriate, isn’t it?” Cranach said, noticing my admiration. “Seeing as we will celebrate Epiphany in a few days. It was a gift from the artist.”

“Dürer?” I said, daring to touch one finger along its edge, as it was displayed on an ornate easel, therefore at a level to do so. I’d never been in proximity to a work so rich in detail and depth. “Albrecht Dürer?”

“He is a rival, but also a friend.”

“Rival?”

Barbara Cranach took her husband’s arm. “Lucas and Albrecht are known to compete sometimes, for the commissions of the church.”

“And royalty,” Cranach added with good nature. “Not that I’m boasting.”

“Of course not,” Luther said. “That would be unchristian of you.”

As they spoke, I realized I had seen this man’s work. “You did the altarpiece, then? In the little chapel on the Reichenbachs’ property?”

He bowed in assent. “I did.”

“Oh.” This conversation made me all the more conscious of the final belonging that sat on top of all my others in the ornate trunk. My portrait, painted by Christoph the Unknown, and an embarrassment among the fine works in the house. In that moment, I questioned whether or not to allow the piece to see the light of day.

I had become acquainted with the family over several occasions at the Reichenbachs’, but I had not realized the depth of the friendship between Cranach and Luther. I knew him to be an artist, and the owner of a respected and lucrative pharmacy —two pursuits that seemed opposite of each other, yet served to meet the needs of both parts of the man. The first, to ensure posthumous fame; the other, contemporary wealth. Cranach himself was a large man, with a great white beard and a presence that disguised the depth of his intelligence. He seemed always to be on the verge of teaching, impatient to extract or explain a new thought. His wife, Barbara, was a gentle soul, quiet and plain in both speech and appearance. I felt an instant ease with them, not only because I’d become more accustomed to society, but because I sensed an opportunity for intellectual challenge.

“My dear,” Barbara said, “I hope you will not be insulted that I have you in an adjoined room, but I think you will appreciate who we have staying on the other side.”

“Who?” I looked to Luther, wondering just what he hadn’t told me.

“An old friend.” As he said it, he and the Cranachs turned, and I followed suit, finding a familiar face indeed poked through the doorway.

“Ave!”

Without thought to decorum, I ran to her, arms outstretched, and she to me. We embraced in a way that would never have been allowed at Marienthrone, and for which we’d had no opportunity since leaving. She was familiar, yes, though we’d never been close. Seeing her at this moment, having been so uprooted, brought forth a wave of unprecedented nostalgia. I hugged her with all my strength, and she returned in kind. When we separated, we both had been moved to tears, but laughter won out.

“How is it you are here?” I asked, as if claiming her as a gift meant just for me.

She inclined her head toward Luther. “He brought me here when my family wouldn’t take me back.”

“You see?” Luther said. “My own wretched apartment is just a few minutes’ walk from this place. I need no means for myself. I have rich friends to extend my hospitality for me.”

Cranach laughed, giving no hint of false modesty regarding his wealth. He could not, as it sprawled all around us. “We tried to convince him to marry her, but he would have none of it.”

Ave looked at me, blushing.

“She is far too sweet for an old Geizhals like myself. I’d have her thoroughly corrupted in a matter of weeks.”

They all laughed, making it clear this was an old joke, which might explain why I didn’t find it amusing. I managed a smile, though, for the sake of camaraderie, and wondered just how serious a campaign Luther had pursued.

“I am engaged to a physician,” Ave said, “by Luther’s introduction. You’ll meet him at supper tonight.”

“You will join us too, I hope?” Barbara directed her question to Luther, who looked far too pleased with himself.

“I will, indeed. As I’ve yet to be known to turn down such an opportunity. But it is early in the day, and I have affairs to tend to in my much-neglected abode. I shall take my leave of you until this evening.”

He bowed to me and to Ave, kissed Barbara on the cheek, and offered his hand to Cranach, who shook it with the particular affection of longtime friendship. Once he left, Barbara walked me to my room, with Ave following close behind, giving a running commentary of the fine hospitality awaiting me.

“God has richly blessed us,” Barbara said. “It seems only right to extend his gifts.”

Her gift extended to my room, twice the size of that at the Reichenbachs’, with a sitting area and a blazing fire. My trunk waited at the foot of the bed, but I declined Barbara’s offer to have help unpacking it.

“I’ve just a few things,” I said, thinking foremost of the portrait on top.

“Very well, then. I’ll leave the two of you to catch up, and I’ll have something to eat brought to you.”

“Thank you,” I said, clasping her hand. “And I won’t be a bother. I promise.”

“A bother? What a silly idea. You’re a friend of Luther’s, so a friend of ours as well. You are welcome to all that we have.”

“And they have a lot,” Ave said once we were alone. She was still not much more than a girl, and draped herself into one of the fireside chairs in a dramatic display of exhaustion. “To think, I was so upset when my father tossed me out, and he doesn’t have half the wealth that Cranach does. Probably because he is so tightfisted with it, don’t you think? Doesn’t it seem that God rewards those who are generous with their wealth? I’ll ask Martin tonight at supper.”

“Martin?”

“He lets me call him that. Cute, isn’t it? He’s a sweet man.”

“He is, indeed.” I opened my trunk and removed the blanket on top. I’d stitched the center panel myself, and folding it with the design on full display, I laid it across the foot of my bed. The bed itself came nearly to my waist, an expanse of feather-stuffed mattress and pillows. Something told me I’d be grateful to crawl into it tonight. “So, did he really propose?”

She giggled. “A dozen times, at least. But never seriously. He’s a bit old, don’t you think?”

“Not so much. He’s just turned forty.”

“Forty!” She spoke the word as if it were a disfiguring curse. “I couldn’t imagine being with a man as old as that.”

“What about your physician? He can’t be too young, if he bears such a title.”

“He is twenty-eight. And handsome, and perfect.” The cut of Ave’s dress revealed the white creaminess of her skin, and I had no doubt her doctor, too, described her as perfect. Her face had not lost its wide-eyed innocence, but a new, healthy glow replaced the pallor from which we’d all suffered. Even I could claim such an enhancement, though I could never possess her beauty.

“I look forward to meeting him. How excited you must be.”

“I am. Truly, I am. But I heard that you had your share of happiness, too? A torrid romance?”

“Not so happy, and not so romantic.” I took the painting, grateful that it was wrapped in canvas, and leaned it against the wall. “God has other plans for me, I think.”

“Like what?”

“That is for him to know, I suppose.”

“No doubt they include Martin.” She was holding my mirror and gazing at herself in the glass. Not with brazen vanity, but the way one would, I suppose, given such a reflection to study. For my part, I was thankful she was too distracted to see my reaction.

“Why would you say such a thing?”

She looked at me over the frame. “Because he knows everybody —in this town and a dozen others. He probably has someone else in mind right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brings him to supper.”

I exhaled, surprised and doubtful at my relief. “I’m quite content to find my own way, thank you. Luther doesn’t have exclusive access to God’s ear.”

“You’re right, of course.” She emitted an appreciative sound at the first dress I removed from the trunk before continuing. “Now, tell me all about this Jerome Baumgartner.”

For the next hour, I did just that. Barbara Cranach had a tray of bread and cheese sent up, along with a small carafe of wine. Ave and I ate and drank and talked as if we were better friends than I recalled. I unburdened myself about Jerome, leaving any details that might besmirch my character carefully concealed. After all, I had no idea where these tales might go from here. So, by the firelight on that winter’s afternoon, Jerome Baumgartner became a better man than I’d known. Noble and courtly, reserved in his affection.

“Not one to give an impassioned promise,” I assured. “And so, rumors of our connection have been greatly exaggerated. He is a young, handsome, and eligible bachelor. I think people were entranced with the idea of a man such as him marrying a nun, when he could have his pick of any lady in the county.”

“My Basi, too, could have any pick,” Ave said, pouting.

“Ah, yes. But in you, he has a prize, doesn’t he? The youngest, the prettiest.” I spoke without grudging her a bit. “I, on the other hand, land squarely in the realm of ordinary on all counts.”

“But you are the smartest. No one would deny that.”

“True. And the moment God creates a man who values a woman’s intelligence above all else, I shall stand in triumph.”

“Well —” Ave’s thin eyebrows danced, and her eyes darted quickly to the bed and back —“maybe not stand.”

“You’re terrible.” But I laughed, as heartily as she did, and made no plans to repent of the thought.

As it turned out, Luther did bring a guest of his own to dinner that night, but it was only von Amsdorf, as eager as Luther to be a part of such company. It was during this supper conversation that I learned the true scope of my host’s talents. A celebrated artist, that I knew, but I could not have guessed at the prolific extent of his work. All the countries, all the courts —the noble subjects and honors bestowed upon him. He himself gave no listing, but Luther and von Amsdorf were free with their information and praise, and his Barbara sat to his right, beaming at her husband’s accomplishments.

Young Doctor Basilius, Ave’s fiancé, contributed his own bits of knowledge, noting how the understanding of anatomy played such a crucial part in the true representation of a subject.

“That’s right,” Ave said, patting his arm the way Barbara patted Cranach’s, as if studying the art of being the supportive wife.

“Well, no doubt your models give you opportunity enough to study,” Luther said before stuffing his mouth with a heap of buttered turnips.

“Martin!” Barbara chastised, but with no real anger.

I looked to Luther, curious, but he only chewed, swallowed, and took another gulp of wine.

“As the Church dies, so will its call for art,” Cranach said, calmly drinking from his own cup, as if he had not just spoken of the end of the Church. “All these Madonnas. I need newer subjects, newer life.”

“So, you return to ancient mythology?” This from Luther, expert at all.

“I am finding the match between my talent and the market. An artist must grow, or he will die.”

“Tell us, Katharina,” Ave said, “what was the painting you brought with you?”

All eyes turned to me, and I fought to keep my voice steady. “Painting?”

“I saw you take it out of your trunk, and a bit of the canvas slipped. I meant to ask you when we were upstairs, but we got to talking about so many other things.” She lifted her eyes to her doctor, reassuring him that he, indeed, had been the object of our conversation.

“Your portrait?” Luther said, and my face burned.

“Who painted you?” Cranach seemed genuinely offended that such an occurrence had happened within his neighborhood, and without his condoning it.

“It’s nothing, I assure you. A student spent the summer at the Reichenbach house, and I volunteered to be his subject.”

Cranach studied me through narrowed eyes. “I’m sure it’s awful.”

Had he reached across the table and slapped me, I couldn’t have been more shocked at his response. The rest of the table seemed equally astonished, as the only sound was the click of Ave’s doctor’s knife against his plate.

Only Barbara dared to speak in my defense. “Lucas, what a terrible thing to say.”

“It’s nothing about her.” His tone remained steady, whether he was remarking upon the fall of the Church, the worth of a woman, or the intricacies of geometry. “Fetch it to me after supper, and we’ll decide together.”

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, interrupted by bits of polite conversation about the length of the sleeves at court and the benefits of sleeping with an open window on a winter night. Once Cranach finished his last bite, he dispelled any hope I had that he’d forgotten his directive.

“Really,” I protested, “it’s not —”

“Forgive my brashness,” Cranach said, though I didn’t believe his humility, “but I think I am a better judge than anyone here of what the painting is or isn’t.”

Being a guest, I could hardly refuse what amounted to a direct order, so I excused myself, took a taper from the table, and hoped I would remember the steps to my room. Once there, I found the painting just as I’d left it and whispered a mild curse at Ave for bringing it up in conversation. I untied the string and removed the canvas, deciding the piece had no right to a dramatic unveiling in front of the company.

I took my time walking back, thinking, if nothing else, the party would have a chance to drink another glass of wine in my absence, leaving them less inclined for proper judgment or clear memory. I found they had departed from the dining room and had gathered in the library, where a fire roared in a hearth nearly as tall as me. One stumbling step, and the atrocity could disappear forever.

“Well?” Cranach said, without a hint of mercy.

Slowly, I turned the canvas, revealing to him the image. Me, reclined and searching. My hand lifted in anticipation, wearing the same ring that now glinted in the firelight.

“As I suspected.” Then he looked right at me. “You weren’t ready for a portrait.”

“You mean the artist wasn’t ready,” von Amsdorf said, ever the diplomat. “Fräulein looks quite lovely, I think, but the perspective . . . It seems as if the proportions —”

“It’s nothing to do with perspective and proportions. Look at her.” Cranach turned to me. “Were you happy in this moment? Relaxed?”

“It was more than just a moment, Herr Cranach. It was days —”

“I know it spanned days, but was there a moment, any moment during the course of the painting, when you felt truly content? At ease?”

“I suppose.” But Cranach’s gaze brought out the truth. “Not really. I hadn’t quite . . . settled.”

“There are only two types of people who should be painted. The powerful and the innocent. With the first, their confidence overcomes their flaws. The second? They don’t know enough to be self-conscious.”

“How can you say she’s not an innocent?” Ave asked. “She was a nun.”

“Innocence has nothing to do with virtue,” Cranach said, directing his reassurance to me.

“And so, when you painted Martin all those years ago?” Barbara said, her voice lilting in a show of levity. “Which was he?”

“You painted Luther?” I asked, instinctively looking around for the evidence.

“It hangs in his studio,” Luther said. “Until I have a home with walls worthy enough for a Cranach.”

Cranach offered no argument. “You were young but powerful. Even then. Even though you were still a monk, you had all the strength you would ever need. You can see it.”

“I thought that was due to your skill as an artist,” Luther said.

“That’s what I want all my subjects to think. But it’s not the case.”

“Tell me,” I said, desperate to end the conversation, “what should I do with this? Shall I make it a gift to you, Luther? Is it sufficiently horrible to earn a space on your poor wall?”

My little joke was rewarded with laughter all around, even mine, though I looked at the painting in a way I never had before. All of my uncertainty was there, revealed in my uneven expression, the strain in my pose. Perhaps Christoph had been underestimated in his artistry.

“Keep it,” Luther said. “My ragged rooms are no place for a woman.”

“We’ll have it framed,” Barbara said, “and hang it in the hall outside of your room. I think there’s a loveliness to it. Lucas simply cannot bear the thought of competition.”

The clock struck ten, and Cranach insisted his guests —Luther, von Amsdorf, and Doctor Basilius —spend the night rather than venture out into the cold.

“Wouldn’t want your corpses on my conscience,” he said, “though I’d wager you’ve had enough of my wine to keep you from freezing.”

Later —hours later, in fact, well past midnight —I’d stripped to my chemise and sat on the edge of my bed. Having unpinned the braids, I brushed my hair, smoothing the strands against my hand. The sound was soft and rhythmic, so close to my ear that I questioned whether or not I heard a soft knock at my door. Once I held the brush suspended, though, the knock became clear. Quiet, but intentional. Ave, no doubt, as I’d chased her from my room a few minutes before, despite her protest of wanting to stay up and talk about “our men.” To send a message that I was ready for bed, I tucked my hair inside my sleeping cap and tied it loosely beneath my chin.

The knocking continued, even as I reached the door’s latch, and to my surprise I opened the door to find Luther’s hand poised, midair, an inch away from my nose.

“What are you doing here? It’s late.” I stretched my neck to look up and down the hallway, then attempted to shut the door.

“Wait.”

He wedged his shoulder against the jamb, leaving me no choice but to open the door wider and step back. As conscious as I was about the state of my undress, I knew he saw me in mostly darkness, as the fire had burned down to mere embers, the room lit only by a lone taper on the side of my bed.

“This isn’t right, you being here.”

“Do you think I’ve come to ravish you?”

I leaned forward, sniffed, and stood back. “I think you’re drunk.”

“Well, in that, you may be correct. But on a cold winter’s night, in the home of a generous host with an endless cellar —”

“And an endless thirst.” I leaned against the edge of the door. “What do you want, Luther?”

“To correct a wrong. A grievous insult.”

“And what would that be?”

“Your portrait. I wouldn’t want you to think, wouldn’t want you to misunderstand, that it wouldn’t be welcome.”

“You’ve offered no offense.”

“Not merely the portrait. I cannot bring a woman —a wife —into my home.”

“As far as I know, no one’s asked you to.”

He relaxed, reached out, and touched the hair that had sprung free from my cap. “It’s grown long.”

“It has.”

He may have wanted to say more, perhaps about the time that had passed since we met, and how it might be measured in weeks or months, or maybe by the dark strands spilled across my shoulder. His eyes held some message never spoken before, and not to be spoken this night, because the moment I sensed its prelude, it disappeared.

“Have you ever noticed, Fräulein von Bora, that you smile off to one side of your face?”

“Why, no, Herr Doktor Luther. I have spent very little time in study of my own reflection.”

“It’s a most curious thing. I wonder, sometimes, if you do not try to take yourself away from confrontation. And thus —” he touched a finger to my lips and traced it to the center of my cheek —“your very mouth is trying to escape.”

I moved my face away, exaggerating my sideways smile. “I admit to staying silent when prudence calls for it, but my mouth, sir, has never run from confrontation. When I speak, I speak my mind, and speak it straight.”

“Then, perhaps, on occasion, a hand has been brought up to strike your cheek for your mouth’s impertinence?”

He spoke with such soft humor, I could not take offense at the hint of violence. I stood straighter, folded my arms, and addressed him in mock challenge. “I assure you, sir, were there such an occasion, the owner of that hand would be gazing up at me from the flat of his back, with the print of my knuckles square on his jaw.”

Luther hooted in response, reminding me of his state of inebriation. “It makes me wonder, then, should you be in full conversation, if one were to perfect his timing, he could aim for a chaste kiss to the cheek —” he leaned in as if to do so —“but find himself infinitely more rewarded.”

I leaned a little closer too. “That man would suffer the same consequences as he who would wish to strike me.”

“Such brutality from a woman so recently quitted from the veil.”

“Such flirtation from a man who spent his youth copying Scripture.”

We’d come to an impasse of wit, and as I knew his attentions to be evidence of his intoxication, I refrained from any further coquettish display.

“Have you anything else to tell me, Luther?”

“Only this. That Baumgartner is a fool, and I will see to it that you are happy in this life.”

“You do me a great honor to take on such a task. Perhaps you’ll think better of it after a good night’s sleep.”

“Perhaps.”

He offered a gracious bow and backed away, wishing me pleasant dreams as if I were a child. I closed the door and leaned against it, guarding myself against a sudden return, but knowing I would welcome his company. No matter the drink, no matter the hour, these truths remained: Luther had looked at me with eyes I’d never seen before. He spoke in a voice I’d never heard, and touched me in a way I could never have imagined in all our times together. With tenderness not paternal in nature. With passion not rooted in religion. And here I stood, a new reaction struck within me. My pulse unsteady, my breath shallow, and something like a giant needle stabbed into the base of my spine. Were I Ave, with her youth and vitality, I might ascribe my visceral reaction to that of a woman newly in love.

But this was fear.