Author: Sarah Monzon
Category: Christian
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Clare stepped forward. “She is correct, Herzog Kampff. And in addition, you sorely vex me with your insinuation that my personal friends could in any way be an enemy of either His Holiness Pope Clement or Emperor Charles V.”
Kampff’s already thin lips pressed together until they disappeared altogether. In a blink, he forced those lines to bow, transforming them into the most insincere smile. “I cry your mercy, princesses, and beg a thousand pardons.”
Clare sniffed and beckoned with her hand. “Bytzel, Katherine, come and I will show you the chapel where we can rest in prayer.”
Christyne hid her grin as she stepped into line behind the other women, not daring to even notch her gaze upward lest Kampff or his mercenary friend discern their true nature. God had spared them discovery this time, but no one had escaped the hound’s sharp fangs as yet.
Nikolaus escorted Peter, Katherine’s husband, toward the stable. They had agreed that he would pose as the ladies’ servant, as his borrowed clothing did not match the finery of their own. Katherine glanced across her shoulder and watched her husband disappear, worry digging grooves across her forehead.
Christyne laid a hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “All will be well.”
Katherine’s chin trembled, but she gave a small smile nonetheless. “The Lord’s will be done.”
“What is this?” Prince Ernst’s voice boomed across the courtyard, causing their party to stumble to a halt upon the cobblestones. “My betrothed and my daughter have returned.”
“And with personal friends to celebrate the happiest of all days, as told.” Clare reached out and lightly grazed his arm with her fingers before linking her hand to his elbow. Her smile wobbled slightly, but then she blinked and held her head high.
Though the other woman used the prince’s blind preference for his young intended to shield the fleeing dissenters, Christyne noted a hint of something else in Clare’s expression. An acceptance. An openness to where her life had brought her and a willingness to receive whatever blessing that path might bestow. In that moment, Christyne recalled the story of Esther.
The queen that had been a savior to her people often filled her thoughts of late. Could she be as brave as that woman? Take a stand on conviction though it might mean death?
Both Katherine and Bytzel began to fidget beside her, their bodies shifting and screaming their discomfort at being detained before a man who could order the end of their breaths with a single word.
Christyne stepped forward to shield them. “Mercy, Father, but I was escorting the women to the chapel. They wished to lay eyes and hands on your relics and receive a blessing.”
Her father’s chest puffed. Frederick the Wise had a reputation for his relics, his collection housing nearly twenty thousand. Pilgrims from all across the empire traveled to venerate a twig from the burning bush, hay from the holy manger, and milk from the mother Mary. Though Heidelbraum’s own collection was not as illustrious, her father took much pride in it.
“Excellent.” He preened, patting Clare’s hand upon his arm. “While you are there, my dear, offer prayers to St. Anthony of Padua that your womb may grow heavy with my seed so that the joy of children and assurance of an heir may once again fill the castle.”
Clare dipped her head, but not before her cheeks colored. Prince Ernst released her then, and Christyne enfolded Katherine’s and Bytzel’s hands in each of her own and hurried them to the chapel.
As they stepped inside, smoke drifted toward the vaulted ceiling from lit candles along the far wall and the sweet scent of incense filled Christyne’s nostrils. Her throat tightened. Only when the Bishop visited did she drag her body into this place. Memories clung to the walls. The statue of the Virgin Mary cradling a baby Jesus offered heartache instead of hope. Her own mother had been ripped from her too early, and now she had no one who would wrap their loving and comforting arms around her.
She dashed a finger under her eye, collecting and discarding an errant tear. Licking her dry lips, she averted her gaze from the statues and crucifix, from the candles and the memories of the prayers for her dying mother. None of the saints she had invoked had saved the pious woman. Yet another reason Christyne had lost faith in the traditions of the state religion.
She looked behind her and took in the wide eyes and trembling shoulders of the two hunted women and felt herself falling, even as she stood on the stone floor of a chapel that boasted of being founded upon a rock. With every page she read of Martin Luther’s translated Scriptures, she sensed a leaning in her spirit. A disquiet she could no longer ignore.
She wanted a pious life. To worship God. But the ways of the Church—purchasing of indulgences, pilgrimages to relics, access to God through a saint or a priest—seemed to distance her from the heavenly instead of draw her upward.
Then Lorenz had appeared. Like the clouds parting and the sun shining upon a land that had never before seen light, she felt herself glow. She did not know if she could have believed that God’s grace alone was enough if Lorenz had not said the words. That grace was a gift freely given to all, able to be neither purchased nor earned.
With that knowledge, her conviction hardened, the assurance of a new foundation both grounding her and releasing the weight burdening her chest. She looked to the crucifix, a watery smile tipping her lips, and thanked Jesus for the gift of His blood shed for her sins and offered Him her heart in faith in return.
Clare placed a palm on Christyne’s shoulder. “Shall we wait until nightfall or risk the undercroft at the present?”
“Though my father looks pleasantly on your prayers among his relics, he will grow impatient with your absence.” Already she had noticed his eyes tracking his soon-to-be bride. If she was not mistaken, she found his heart in that gaze. Pray it may not be she who followed Esther’s course, but Clare, for the prince looked with favor on his princess. “I will go before to make certain we are not observed.”
They were not. A quick look past a door near the back of the chapel declared all was well. She motioned to the women with her hand, then led them across the expanse and ushered them into the undercroft’s belly. A small candle flickered near a back corner, the distance and daylight offering safety in the short flame. Three men knelt, heads bowed. Christyne’s gaze swept over them, landing upon the dark locks of her scholar.
Yea, hers. For had she not felt a kinship with this man? A bond unlike she had ever known before? Days she had argued with herself, that their closeness came from being thrust into the midst of tribulation. Was that of rescuer for the life she had saved. Then their roles reversed as he taught her of an everlasting life and the gift of eternity with Christ.
But such things could not explain the hitch she felt in her middle whenever she drew near him. Nor the quiver in her muscles when he set his intense blue eyes upon her. As a scholar, he touched her mind. As a man, he touched her heart. Stirred and awoke things within her that had slumbered unbeknownst. With a single look he tilled the soil of her heart and planted a seed, and now new growth sprang forth from her breast.
As if aware of her eyes upon him, his face tilted up, gaze latching onto and holding hers. The intensity of his gaze caused her breath to freeze in her lungs. But then his eyes heated, turning from the marriage of ice and sky into the burning blue of dancing flames, and her breath melted, leaving her body on a shuddering exhale.
“‘Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come. She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.’ ‘Her price is far above rubies.’” Lorenz’s smile lit with an inner radiance. An eternal light that no darkness could ever snuff out. “God went with you, Christyne, and I will forever praise His name for returning you.” The notch in his long throat bobbed, his voice lowering to a gravely whisper. “To me.”
“How is your shoulder?” Peter’s voice was like a dagger, severing the unseen connection between Lorenz and Christyne.
“The angel the Lord provided hath knit me together o
nce more.” He dared another glance her way.
Her skin warmed under his regard. “As told, I am no angel.”
“Do mine eyes deceive me, or has our devoted scholar raised his nose far enough out of a book to discover the greatest blessing the Lord has bestowed upon man?” Peter grinned as he held out his hand to his own wife. She came willingly, snuggling under his shoulder and resting a hand upon his chest.
“Mine eyes have been opened to a great many things, my friend.” Lorenz spoke to Peter yet kept his gaze intent on Christyne.
Nikolaus cleared his throat. “As have mine.”
Hette gripped her brother’s arm, but he shook her off and stepped forward. “I believe all you have shared with me, Lorenz Meier. That Jesus offers me His grace without any merit from myself. I desire to accept that gift. Though baptized as a babe, I wish to declare my fealty to Him as my Lord and Savior as a grown man, in my own right, clinging to the faith growing in my chest.”
Lorenz turned to him fully, his visage shining with both sincerity and solemnity. “You know the consequences of such a decision?”
A regal bearing overtook the stable hand. “If it comes thus, I shall count it an honor to suffer as my Lord suffered.”
“Then who am I to dissuade you? Come, and I shall call you brother.” Lorenz gathered the chipped pitcher Hette had provided on the first day to clean his wounds. Nikolaus knelt before Lorenz as the man held the pitcher above Nikolaus’s head. After a prayer, Lorenz tipped the vessel. Clean, clear water trickled over Nikolaus’s crown and ran down his beard. He lifted his face, his joy luminous.
Peter thumped Nikolaus on the back and helped him to stand. Bytzel smiled at him shyly.
Christyne could not pull her eyes from the pitcher. Dare she?
Memories—her father’s words and Bishop Wilmer’s, the latter more akin to threats than caution—filled her mind. They came like a deluge, flooding her senses. When Martin Luther had first nailed his ninety-five theses to the church doors in Wittenberg, Christyne had been curious. Why would a monk and scholar make such statements against the Church? Instead of explaining doctrines that felt beyond the grasp of her feeble mind, her father and Bishop Wilmer had woven a picture for her. Of a man preceding Luther. Another man who thought to reform the Church.
Jan Huss.
With vivid detail, they recounted how the rector had been stripped naked by the executioner. Jeers and lewd remarks lashed him from the gathered crowd. His hands had been tied behind his back and a chain wound about his neck, binding him to a stake. Wood and straw piled around him until only his head remained visible. They taunted him until the imperial marshal offered him one last opportunity to recant, which he declined.
Christyne shuddered as she recalled the sensory descriptions Bishop Wilmer seemed to enjoy prodding her with. The smell of burning flesh. The cries of a dying man.
The warning had been clear. Any person who dared defy the mother church would receive their just punishment.
She slid her eyes shut, picturing Jesus upon the cross. For her transgressions He was wounded. For her iniquities He was bruised. Rejected. Despised. Acquainted with grief. Her punishment upon His shoulders.
Did she wish to lay down her life? To be cast beneath the flowing currents of a nearby river, never to rise again?
Nay. But if she must die to this world, then she would cling to the hope of everlasting eternity with the Prince of Peace.
Following Nikolaus’s lead, she stepped forward. “I, too, wish to be baptized.”
Lorenz’s hand stilled midair, his motion to set the pitcher upon the ground halted by her declaration. He turned toward her, slow and intentional. His muscles seemed to simultaneously tighten and go slack.
Clare laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your father has already declared the deaths of any dissenters he finds on his lands. Herzog Kampff waits with his landsknechte to mete out fatal punishment.” She glanced around their small circle, eyes wide and pleading before she settled her gaze back on Christyne. “What you propose will surely be the end of you, for you, daughter of the land, can neither hide away nor escape during your father’s marriage ceremony.”
Christyne met Clare’s earnest regard. She straightened her spine. All the fears she had been carrying around since first she donned Hette’s kirtle and sneaked past the castle walls drained from her shoulders. Then, she had been spurred on by a sense of duty; now, she stood in rightness. Though simply a woman, God had used her. To save Lorenz. Betzyl, Peter, and Katherine as well. And in the midst of the rescuing, she herself had been ransomed. Was there any greater purpose in life than that? To be used by God?
And if He could use her in death as well as in life, who was she to argue with God? Jan Huss’s physical end did not silence his influence. If she be silenced, then may her blood cry out.
Holy, holy, holy is the name of the Lord.
“Nor can you,” she reminded Clare.
“ʼTis true. However, Prince Ernst is already aware of my beliefs and mistakenly thinks he can curb my mind and bend my will back to the Church. You cannot claim the same.”
She could not. But life was not worth living without conviction. “I am aware of the consequences, same as Nikolaus.”
Clare stepped away and Lorenz took her place. The dark stubble upon his jaw had thickened over the days he had resided under the same roof as she. He raised a hand, and she noticed the fading ink stains on his fingers as he reached to cup her neck. Though his stature was not thick and broad like that of the men tilling the soil or those wielding weapons, he stood strong before her.
Her breast sank as air pushed out of her chest. Expanded as it filled. Never had she been so aware of what her body did without thought. The beats of her heart. The sensitivity of her skin. Everything heightened as he drew near.
“Never have I felt such a mixture of joy and fear before a baptism,” he confessed. His thumb trailed along the underside of her jaw. “I wish I could promise to protect you, but I have been unable to save even myself.”
She swallowed, working her tongue past its thickness. “You have already saved me. There is more than this mortal world holds.”
His features softened, and he moved his hand to lay it on her crown. After a prayer, he poured water in a gentle stream over her head.
I am thine, O Lord.
Chapter Twenty
Germany, Present Day
It was a two cups of coffee type of morning. Blame the phase of the moon or charged particles in the air, the kids had taken two huge steps back in progress that morning. They were grumpy, didn’t want to listen, and had an attitude that brought the consequence of running laps until their legs were too weak to take another step.
Seth had called a fifteen-minute water break, but Amber needed to zip into the center for something with a little more fortification and a lot more caffeine. Hopefully Yasmin would be busy with a phone call or helping a patron. Already Amber had fielded knowing glances from Mila that morning with her first cup of coffee. She didn’t want to have to endure the subtle smiles, or even worse, the straightforward questions from her friends.
It was there, written plainly across everyone’s faces. How did the date go? What did she think of Seth? Were they officially a couple?
They meant well, and she couldn’t blame them since they’d all, in essence, been on the date together. But even though she’d shared the experience, she wasn’t ready to share the experience. If that made any sense.
Their connection was too new. Too special. She wanted to keep it close to her heart, bathe in the memory of the moments she and Seth had spent together walking along the river, talking and simply being together. They were in a private little cocoon that, at the moment, only had room for the two of them. Invite too many people in too quickly and who knew? Maybe the growth of their relationship would be stunted, their wings never strong enough to fly.
A relationship. Her skin flushed with the thought. Who would have imagined that keep-to-herself, bookish, driven
Amber Carrington would be in a relationship with someone as wonderful and well-known as Seth Marshall? If the residual heat of his palm didn’t still warm her hand, she’d pinch herself to make sure all of it was real.
He’d acted a little strange after their walk, but she’d felt off kilter as well. Everything was new. Exciting. Scary.
She pulled open the front door of the center and peeked inside. Coast clear. Silly, yes, but that didn’t stop her from tiptoeing inside and pouring a mug of coffee as stealthily as she could. A few packets of sugar and cream, a quick stir, and she closed her eyes and took a sip.
Soft sniffles echoed off the cement-block walls, and her ears pricked. Crying? Did someone need help? She followed the muffled whimpers past an empty corridor of cubicles—must be a meeting going on—and paused at the entrance of the rec room.
She blinked a few times to make sure what she was seeing was real. Kayla—tough, doesn’t-need-anyone, stay-away-from-me Kayla—sat on the hard floor, a child in her lap, her arms wound tightly around the young girl. Amber’s heart pinched and then melted a little.
Though she hadn’t been able to spend too much time with Seth’s sister yet, the erected walls and stand-off vibes she projected were so visible she might as well have given everyone 3D glasses. But no one was that hard through and through. Kayla may project a tough exterior, but inside she was all mush. Like a Cadbury Crème Egg.
She looked exactly like her brother, sitting there. The image reminded Amber of Seth and how he’d comforted the kids after the noise from the airplanes had scared them all so badly.
Kayla ran a hand over the girl’s head. With the veil of hair brushed away, Amber recognized Sonia, the preteen from Syria. Amber hadn’t seen her on the field since the fright from the planes. She’d wanted to visit her at home and make sure she was doing all right. Had she been hiding out inside the rec room instead of playing soccer with her and Seth all this time?
Kayla whispered soft words in Sonia’s ear, her paint-splattered fingers methodically stroking the girl’s hair. Amber’s gaze snagged on an easel with a canvas resting across its base off to their side. She remembered Seth saying his sister had always been an artist. The angle of the canvas made it difficult to see the picture painted on its surface, but instinct told her that, whatever the creation, it was the culprit for the emotions erupting from the child.