Luther and Katharina Read Online Free

or alive. One year at Wartburg Castle disguised as a knight had been enough hiding for him. Now that he was free of the confines, he’d begun to travel again, much to the chagrin of many of his friends.
    Ahead on the street corner, a crippled beggar sat in a pitiful heap of dirty rags and lifted skeletal arms at the many people passing him by. Luther’s fingers went instinctively to the purse hanging inside his scapular. The leather pouch was weightless and empty. As usual.
    “I have nothing to give,” he grumbled to Melanchthon.
    “You’re like the holy apostles,” Melanchthon responded in the same conciliatory tone as always. “You may not have silver or gold, but you give something much better. Hope.”
    Melanchthon’s words were meant to comfort him, but Luther had to stop before the beggar anyway. “Come.” He lifted the man to his feet. “I know where you can get a meal.”
    “Doctor Luther!” called several people passing by. “There’s Doctor Luther!”
    Melanchthon sighed and Luther knew his friend was worried about the attention he’d drawn to himself. Nevertheless, Melanchthon stood back uncomplaining while Luther shook hands and spoke to those who surrounded him.
    “Is it really true that I don’t need to buy an indulgence to free my son from purgatory?” called a stoop-shouldered man clothed in rags almost as filthy as the beggar’s.
    “It’s really true,” Luther responded. “The archbishop charges you so he can increase his coffers. But God’s mercy is not for sale. It’s free.”
    Only with Melanchthon’s gentle prodding did Luther finally move forward with the beggar still firmly in his grasp. When they entered the inn, Luther settled the man at a corner table but was himself once again surrounded by crowds. As he seated himself next to Melanchthon on a bench, the table rapidly filled with townsmen eager to speak with him.
    After quenching his thirst, Luther lifted his tankard, signaling the innkeeper for a refill. In the dimness and haze of hearth smoke, the innkeeper nodded and began to squeeze his way through the swell of bodies around Luther’s table.
    “I agree with what everyone is saying,” Luther said to his companions. “There’s no easy solution to the problem. But we can’t let the devil stop us from doing the work of God.”
    “What if emptying the cloisters is merely the work of Martin Luther and not of God?” asked one of the Mansfeld provosts sitting opposite him, his fur-trimmed
Schaube
hanging loosely over his shoulders. The question sparked another round of loud remarks.
    The room had a low-beamed ceiling and dark walls and was lit by several flickering sconces. A cool breeze attempted to make its way through two small windows whose shutters were thrown open to the early morning, but it couldn’t penetrate the air around Luther, which had grown stale and sour.
    Irritation nagged him as it did every time he had to discourse with wealthy noblemen who thought they knew best. Why did they think their titles made them better than an average man like himself?
    “If emptying the cloisters is merely the work of Martin Luther,” he said above the boisterous voices that filled the inn, “then you won’t have to bear the guilt for dumping two of your daughters in the Wiederstedt convent. Right, Herr Kohler?”
    “I’ve sacrificed them to God for a life of service and worship. How could that be wrong?”
    “Did you ask your daughters if they wanted to worship in such a way?” Before they could respond, he continued. “God wants worship that is given freely, not forced.” The innkeeper reached the table and pushed a plate of cold salted herring, bread, and cheese before Luther and then refilled his mug. The man wouldn’t expect payment. He never did. Luther knew the extra customers he attracted with his visits were payment enough.
    The greasy odor of fried fish made his stomach gurgle. He nodded at Melanchthon next to him, but his friend shook his head,