Loving Luther Page 6

  “I will not miss your impudence,” Sister Odile said, confirming what I’d hoped to hear.

  “So I’m to go?”

  “She says she will welcome you, though that may be because she’s yet to meet you.”

  Nothing Sister Odile said could stem my enthusiasm, and before I could think about how a proper young lady would conduct herself, I clapped my hands and let forth a sound of rejoicing. Unlike Girt, I was far from settled on the question of taking the veil, but I had come to the end of what could be called an education here at Brehna. Even though I was only ten, I attended classes with all the older girls and helped them with their Latin and theology studies. Marienthrone offered more, for me and for my friend.

  “What did she say about Therese? Can she come too?”

  A dependent of the charity of the Church, Therese could not hope to gain entrance into so fine a convent without a sponsor. My family did not have the means to provide for Therese—I doubted they would be able to send me there without the benefit of family connection. The fact remained, though, that we did have such a connection, and since the day Therese tore and then mended my dress, I’d been searching for a way to repay her. Christmas the previous year sparked my idea.

  I would go to Marienthrone, and I would take Therese with me.

  “She, too, is welcome,” Sister Odile said, “though it will make me sad to see both of you go.”

  Nothing in Sister Odile’s face indicated sadness. Instead, it was Sister Gerda who sniffed a small sniff before turning her clouded eye to the window.

  “We have done our part here,” Sister Odile said, her voice deep with reassurance. “God brings us these children, and we raise them to be his bride. What greater honor than to see our hard work come to fruition.”

  The meaning behind her words was not lost. She knew I’d made no such commitment, and that if I did, this hovel of a place would receive no credit. But Therese, I knew, longed for the day when she would be old enough to commit her life to the vows of poverty, chastity, and servitude to Christ.

  “When do we leave?” I tried to somewhat mask my enthusiasm.

  “Two weeks hence,” Sister Odile said. “Sister Gerda will accompany you and speak our introduction. Would you like that, Gerda?”

  “Oh, I think that’s fine. Just fine,” she said, looking as if she believed it.

  After settling the details of the travel, I walked out of the common room to see Therese waiting in the hall.

  “Chamber of Sadness, Kat?”

  “Hardly.” I took her by the hand and led her off to a quiet place where I could tell her everything. She was, after all, my best friend, and I’d just won my first battle to keep us together.

  CHAPTER 6

  I BRACED MY TOES against the front of the carriage, holding myself to my seat as it careened down, down into the valley. Stretching, I pulled the curtain aside and looked out the window. The late-afternoon sky was tinged golden, infused with the aura of autumn. That’s how I would have described it to Sister Gerda. The woman claimed to see clouds of shadow and color, and not even her blindness would be able to block out the blazing reds and oranges of the underbrush of the forest rolling beside the lumbering coach.

  Why she had been chosen to accompany us as chaperone remained a mystery. She could offer neither protection from would-be rogues nor guidance during the short forays when we stopped to rest the horses. Perhaps it was her expendability that had brought her out on Sister Odile’s arm, to be unceremoniously handed up to the seat opposite Therese and me. Her sharp ears picked up every word of conversation, no matter how loud the jangling of the chains or the rumble of the wheels. But when she slept, she did so deeply, with snores loud enough to frighten foxes. We had giggled at the first, bringing Sister Gerda sharply awake and incurring her wrath for showing such mirth when we were traveling under the mercy of God’s guiding hand. For the next hour, she brought us to clutching terror with stories of all that could go wrong for a heedless girl upon the heathen roads.

  “Rip you right out of the doors, they can,” she said. “One filthy hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming, the other carrying you off to some godforsaken place. Next thing, your virtue is gone, and you’re left, tossed into the ruts.”

  She spoke with such haunting authority that we fell silent until Therese sang a sweet hymn to soften the old nun’s glare. After a time, the woman’s head bobbed low, a string of spittle dribbling from the corner of her toothless mouth.

  “Come over here,” Therese beckoned, and I leaned over to look at the scene unfolding on the other side.

  At the foot of a rolling hill, the valley opened up to what looked like an entire miniature town. Smoke rose from chimneys, and a series of single-story buildings were laid out in a precise manner, creating a wall of booths and shops surrounding a large structure at the center.

  “That’s it. Marienthrone,” Therese whispered. “Such an honor. I mean, a girl can’t just walk through the doors there. It’s only for nuns, and only if you have property to give them.”

  “Or a name.” I squeezed her hand. “What do you think it will be like?”

  Therese shrugged. “Only God can see the future.”

  We rode past farmland fresh from the last harvest and orchards of trees laden with fruit. Up close, I noticed the tradesmen—blacksmith, butcher, potters, and carpenters—none of whom offered more than a passing glance.

  “There’s everything,” I said, my voice tinged with awe. My mind reeled with memories of walking beside Papa around the market back home. How long had it been since I’d heard the iron clash of a blacksmith or smelled the meat from a butcher’s smokehouse? This, I knew, would be my only glimpse. A locked gate awaited.

  “No different from Brehna.” Therese sat back in her seat, arms folded. But she didn’t fool me. This was new, bigger, and bustling.

  “I was worried. It seemed so far away from home.”

  “Our Savior is our home,” Therese said, quoting the phrase so many sniffling girls heard upon their arrival through the big doors at Brehna.

  “Good girl.” Sister Gerda’s eyes were still closed, but a satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her listless mouth. “Remember, not even the Son of God himself had a place to rest his holy head. If you have warmth and food, you have more than you deserve, being a sinner of this world. There are many who don’t have even that.”

  “Yes, Sister,” I said, but I couldn’t completely quell the disappointment forming deep within my belly. We turned a corner, and I had to poke my head outside the window to see our approach to a low brick wall topped with latticework and vines. Once through the gate, we drove past gardens being tended by women in spotless white robes. A few left their chore and stood, hands shielding their eyes from the setting sun. “They wear white here.”

  “Not until they take their vows,” Sister Gerda said. “And how they can hope to do God’s work in such frivolous attire is beyond understanding.”

  Therese and I exchanged a furtive, amused look before we took one last, lingering glance out the window, breathing in the sweetness of the garden.

  When we finally came to a smooth stop, the driver yelled, “Hello at the gate!” I watched him—a burly man, unwashed in flesh and clothing—descend from his seat and approach the arched door, sounding three heavy drops of the iron knocker. Minutes later, the door of the carriage opened, and a grubby hand, calloused from the reins, took mine, helping me step down to the wooden block and then onto the pebbled ground, where my knees wobbled beneath me.

  “Steady,” he said but offered no assistance.

  Therese and Sister Gerda were similarly aided. Then, with a tip of his hat, the driver ascended to his seat, touched his whip to the horses, and disappeared. No sooner had he rounded the corner than the arched wooden door opened, revealing a nun dressed head to toe in pristine white, a black cross hanging from a thin rope settled squarely at her center. She smiled, bringing pink roses to her cheeks, and motioned for us three to follow
her. The gesture was lost on Sister Gerda, who erupted in confusion when I took her arm to guide her.

  “What’s this? Where—?” Her clouded eyes searched high and low before her nose scrunched in distaste. “That’s right. So much silent here. Might as well be deaf and dumb.”

  The nun in white didn’t offer so much as a backward glance. I looped my arm more tightly through Sister Gerda’s and kept a respectful distance behind. There was nothing to distract me from our guide. No tapestries on the walls, no painted depictions of saints or the Holy Family. Just brick after brick, haphazardly assembled, doing next to nothing to hold back the chill of the approaching evening. The ground was hard-packed earth up to the point where we crossed a threshold, then became uneven stone as we stood in a cavernous room, empty save for a soot-stained fire pit in its center. The air smelled of ashes, and my eyes stung as if smoke lingered in every crevice. But there was no fire, and judging from the charred wood in the center of the pit, there hadn’t been one for quite some time.

  “I thought it would be so grand,” I whispered.

  “There’s no need for frivolity in doing the Lord’s work,” Therese said, though I sensed her disappointment too.

  Our host held up a hand, indicating we should stay and wait, then disappeared through one of the dark hallways.

  Sister Gerda tugged my sleeve. “Tell me.”

  I whispered in detail all I’d seen since we descended from the coach, concluding with the fact that the room we now stood in appeared to have more than four walls, with several shallow corners surrounding us on all sides, and the impressive pit at its center.

  “Warming room,” Sister Gerda said, as if answering a question. “Means the rest of the place will be cold as a killer’s heart.”

  “It’s a large enough room,” Therese said, her soft voice echoing. “Plenty of space to gather.”

  “Mark me,” Sister Gerda said, pointing her arthritic finger toward the massive chimney, “you’ll be lucky to get the dregs of warmth come winter.”

  The small sound of a clearing throat caught our attention. The nun had returned and gestured again for us to follow. Her white habit provided the only light in the corridor, and had it been any later in the day, it too would have been swallowed up in the darkness. The hallway emptied into a small antechamber, equally as Spartan as any room we’d seen thus far, with a plain cross hung above an open, arched doorway. The nun touched Therese and Sister Gerda lightly on their shoulders, then pointed to a crude wooden bench beside the door.

  Therese took custody of Sister Gerda and led her to the bench, whispering, “She wants us to sit and wait here.”

  “Even Katharina?”

  “No,” Therese said. “She’s taking Katharina with her.”

  Sister Gerda’s faint attempt to protest prompted the nun to take my hand and lead me through the doorway into a room that, while simplistic in its design, was more ornate than any we’d encountered so far. A triptych depicting the Annunciation hung on a wall opposite a high window. The late afternoon offered nothing but dull gray light, making the woman standing in the far corner appear like an image coming clear in the face of a pond.

  “Sister Clara, some light, please.”

  At this soft command, the pink-cheeked nun—Sister Clara—stepped into the antechamber and returned with a stub of burning candle, which she touched to one taper after another in the sconces lining the wall. Within a minute, the room blazed with light.

  “There you are,” said the woman in the corner. The abbess stood awash in authority. She, too, was dressed in a pristine white habit, but the cross hanging from her neck was held with a chain of fine black iron, and her waist was encircled by a wide red belt. She wore not only the golden band on the third finger of her left hand but a ring set with a large red stone on the one extended in welcome. “Katharina. Come to me, child.”

  She spoke with the affection of familiarity, and the rush of light took my breath. The face framed by the cascading white wimple held every memory I had of my mother. Eyes the same mix of gray and blue, lashes the color of dark ginger. I imagined Mother wearing such a garment—a robe of righteousness, donned at the moment of her passing. My feet longed to run, my body to be swept up in an embrace, the full sleeves wrapped around me like angels’ wings. The abbess, however, offered no such invitation. Only one hand, stretched forward, promising nothing more than an opportunity for me to take it in my own and offer a sweet, swift kiss. The stone of her ring felt cold against my cheek.

  “At last, cousin,” the abbess—Margarete—said. “I despaired of ever meeting you.”

  I looked up, still struck speechless.

  “And, my, but you look like her. I must have been about your age the last time I saw her, before I came here. It’s like going back in time.”

  Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, burning my throat, further stalling my ability to speak.

  “Come.” Her voice was softer now, but no less authoritative. “Sit here.” She indicated an upholstered chair beneath the window. “Our supper time has passed, but I’m sure you must be hungry.” She turned to the woman who had all but faded into the darkness of the doorway. “Sister Clara, go to the kitchen. Find bread and milk and cheese and have it taken to the guesthouse.”

  “There’s three of us,” I said, finding my voice at last. “My friend Therese and Sister Gerda, who came as chaperone.”

  Margarete leaned forward to give a gentle pat to my knee. “I know, dear one. They shall be fed too. And given a bed for tonight. All of you will spend tonight in the guesthouse. It’s more comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Inexplicable gratitude kept my voice close to a whisper.

  “What is this?” Margarete leaned back in her chair and examined me with exaggerated scrutiny. “Sister Odile told me you were a headstrong girl, outspoken and clattering.”

  I couldn’t help smiling at the word. “Clattering?”

  “She said your little wooden shoes echoed up one hall and down the other, always running around with your compatriots. One of them, I suppose, being this friend who accompanied you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who walks in to see me but this mouse of a girl who cannot even give me a proper greeting. You are not just a novice, my little Katharina. You are my family. More than a sister in the eyes of God, a cousin of common blood. I know your father’s intentions, sending you to Brehna. So much closer to him and your home, but you have family here. True, we don’t take the little ones, but he could have waited. Kept you home until now. Honestly, that man. If he ever made a decision, it was a bad one.”

  I bristled at the criticism of my father. “I loved it there. It was pretty.”

  Margarete laughed. “True enough. You will find life here very different. We tend to be more frugal with the resources granted us by the Church. Not nearly as frivolous as what you’ve been accustomed to. In that, though, we are much better suited to your family’s means. And given the tightfisted nature of your stepmother, I’m surprised you weren’t snatched back to the farm the minute your endowment ran dry.”

  My face burned with shame as this woman—this holy woman—prattled on about the shortcomings of my family. My father, in particular, and his shortsighted choice of a wife. Still, I held my tongue and fumed silently, keeping my eyes fixed on the heavy cross nestled in white wool.

  “But you’re here now, aren’t you? And from what I’ve heard from the sisters at Brehna, you’re quite advanced in your language and arithmetic. Latin, too? Or a bit, as they’ve said. Well done, little cousin.”

  Once again she reached across to pat my knee, only this time, Margarete’s ring produced a muffled click against the metal of the locket hidden within my skirt.

  “What is that?”

  I said nothing, only shifted position.

  Not fooled, Margarete looked at me from an angle of suspicion. “What have you got in your pocket? I heard something.”

  I shifted again, this time taking care to knock th
e back of my shoe against the leg of the chair. “Clattering, as Sister Odile says.”

  At that, Margarete threw her head back and laughed, deep from her throat. Though I had arrived less than an hour ago, I somehow knew the sound was a rare occurrence and pictured a sea of white robes pouring in, worried that their abbess was under some kind of attack. Then, as abruptly as the laughter burst forth, it stopped, and Margarete’s hand gripped my leg, obviously searching for the hidden trinket.

  “Hear this, my little cousin. You cannot be expecting any special treatment. We are all equal in the eyes of God, and whatever affection I may have for you must be undetectable by the other sisters here.”

  “I’ve never detected it all these years,” I said. “Why start now?”

  “Oh, now your tongue has been set free, has it? Mind your impudence. You’ll find very few opportunities for it, anyway. We take our meals in silence and discourage idle conversation. You are to speak in prayer, and to each other only as much as is necessary to complete your service to God. This time we’ve had together has been a wasted opportunity for you, I’m afraid. But perhaps another time we can catch up. You can tell me all about your brothers.”

  Her abrupt change in tone when she spoke again of our family was its own lost opportunity. Her smile stretched like an icy path between us, and I cared not if I cracked it. “You probably know more than I do. You seem to know everything.”

  The abbess sat back, her eyes narrowed to catlike slits. “I do, don’t I? See to it that you remember.”

  PART II

  Marienthrone at Nimbschen

  1514–1515

  CHAPTER 7

  THE BELL RANG at the edge of darkness. Nothing loud enough to awaken the uninitiated, as I learned my first weeks here, when I’d been hauled from my bed by one of my fellow novices. It didn’t take long to train myself to sleep with the expectation of the predawn wakening. I slept in my socks and undergarments, not only for the added warmth, but for the swiftness in dressing, to be presentable and complete and in the hall by the time Sister Clara arrived to escort us to the sanctuary for the first of seven services that day.