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 once 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?
