By Ruth A. Acheson
The crypt was cold, as expected. What I didn’t expect as I stepped toward my family’s section was the torch light and the murmured words. Nobody visited this crypt; nobody mourned the loved ones entombed there. Nobody but me, of course.
I stepped around the corner into the torch’s glow. “Who goes there?”
A young woman knelt before the stone platform where my grandfather’s body rested, her head bent, dark hair nearly touching the chilly stone floor. At my sharp question, she looked up, blinking in the torchlight. “I apologize, sir. I merely came to—”
“It is I who should apologize, milady.” I frowned. Wretched fool! Who disturbs a lady at her prayers? “I’ve never met anyone but myself in my family crypt, so your presence startled me.”
“You’re a Luther?” She stood and shook out her skirts. As she rearranged herself, I couldn’t help noticing her fine figure, serviceable dress, and the sword belted to her waist.
“Yes, milady.” I bowed. “Martin Luther, at your service.”
She curtsied in return. “A pleasure, Herr Luther. I am Katharina von Bora.”
“You carry a sword, milady, even among the dead, who will give you no trouble.”
Katharina sighed. “I feel safer with it by my side, milord.”
This woman, with her sword and unstated connection to my family, had piqued my curiosity. I brushed my hands down my robe, removing invisible specks of dust, then folded my hands and focused my gaze on the woman’s face.
Katharina raised her eyebrows. “You’re skeptical, Herr Luther.”
I shook my head. “Nay, milady.”
“Dare you test me, then?” Katharina stepped forward, hand on her sword’s hilt, and squinted at me.
I folded my arms. “I carry no blade but the Sword of the Spirit. I don’t question your skill.”
She released her sword and stepped back to her original place. “You are the man who wrote the letters to the nuns.”
I bowed my head in her direction.
“You believe nuns should forsake their vows to God?” Katharina’s voice rang like a church bell in the silent crypt. Her white blouse glowed in the torchlight, which revealed the elegant embroidery on her skirt but didn’t shed enough light on who this woman was.
“If the vows aren’t made in earnest,” I clarified. “If you are going to try to change my mind, it will not work. I’m so stubborn that none but Christ and His Spirit can change my opinion once it has been formed.”
“I will not attempt to change your mind… because of who I am.” She looked down at the damp stone floor.
“Who are you, Katharina von Bora?” I asked.
“A woman seeking to aid her true love.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “Would you like to know my true love?”
“I would, milady.”
“Then follow me, Herr Luther.” She lifted a torch from its holder and strode deeper into the crypt. The scent of cold stone and old things wrapped around us, and even as flickering light pushed the shadows away, a shiver slid down my spine. The realm of the dead didn’t easily welcome the living.
“Call me Martin,” I said to her back.
She turned, holding the torch so it shone upon me. “Kate. I’ve staggered under titles for too long.”
Titles?
We walked in silent darkness, deeper and deeper into the past. The dead surrounding us were no longer recently deceased; they’d lain quiet for decades, some for centuries. The crypt was old—but what Kate led me to was older still.
“Where are we going?” If I spoke loud enough, I couldn’t hear the dripping water, the squeaking of church mice, and the snapping of her torch.
There was a smile in her voice. “Through hell, like Dante, to ascend to Heaven.”
We paused in front of a large carving of Christ, standing triumphantly atop skulls and bones. Underneath, in Latin, was written: Novissima autem inimica destruetur mors.
“’The last enemy to be destroyed is death,’” she said as she reached out and pressed her fingers into the wound on Christ’s right wrist.
A tiny click punctuated the silence, and a secret door behind the carving sprung open.
“What is this?” I stared at her.
She waved me through the tiny door—I had to hunch—and followed me into the hidden room. “Welcome, Herr Martin Luther, to Die Kirche der Weltheiligen, the Church of the World’s Saints, my true love.”
The ten or so women sitting in the candlelight rose and bowed to me. They were eerily silent.
I stared at Kate, wishing my gaze could penetrate through her flesh and into her soul to read what was written there. “Who are you, Kate, truly?”
“I,” she whispered, “am an escaped nun.”
“An escaped nun who bears a sword like a warrior maiden.” I shook my head.
She smiled. “I escaped the convent because of your writings. I’ve lived in hiding ever since, recanting my vow, and renouncing my title to serve my true love.”
“Your true love?” I echoed. “You’re helping other nuns escape and hiding them in a burial ground?”
“Others have regretted taking the veil after reading your writings, as I did. So I helped them—and I hope you will also.” She rested her hand on her sword hilt. “We aren’t recanting our vow to love God, for the world needs to see Christ. However, it cannot if His people are locked away in a convent.”
I smiled at her. “You are different from any nun I’ve ever met.”
“Nay, I’m not a nun.” She stood tall beneath the weight of her bold, rebellious words. “I am a warrior, Herr Martin, a freed daughter of the King.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
What an excellent story about Luther! And seasonally appropriate, as well. :)
Compelling and moving, as well as thought-provoking, suspenseful, with well drawn characters and a lovely lyrical use of words.