Bipolar WINTER. Samuel David Steiner

      Prologue

       Mansfeld, Germany

       January 1491

      The candle’s soft light flickered off the rough stone walls as Margarethe moved quietly down the hall. Her thin slippers and linen shift did little to keep the bitter night air at bay, but she didn’t mind. The chill kept her thoughts focused on something other than what dawn would bring.

      I should feel honored. She reminded herself her sins would be forgiven—all she had to do was give up what meant most to her in the world. Redemption through sacrifice, as the Church put it. And by complying, she assured her family’s place in Heaven, along with safety here on Earth. Wasn’t that enough?

      Still, warm tears slipped down her cheeks. She quickly brushed them away with her fingertips, and then took a deep breath and silently opened the door to her son’s room. Candlelight pushed against the darkness, falling on her son’s angelic face as she stepped over the threshold. Seeing he had kicked off his blankets, she smiled and set her candle on the small table beside his bed to tuck him in again. But her hands stilled as fresh tears flooded her eyes. Would she never see his sleeping face again? Never see him smile or hear him laugh?

      Why, God? Why do you demand my son?

      He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. “Mama?”

      “Yes, Martin?” she said softly.

      His eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you crying?”

      She shook her head and swallowed past the lump in her throat before answering. “I just love you so much.”

      He tilted his head. “So, they are happy tears?”

      She bit her lip to keep the truth from escaping and forced a smile. “Yes, my son. They are happy tears.”

      Fully awake, Martin sat up and studied his mother. “Are you worried about today?” Stunned, she quickly looked away, trying to collect herself as she picked up discarded garments strewn across the floor. “No, of course not. I am…just a little nervous, that is all."

      “Not me,” he said. “It is part of God’s plan after all.”

      She froze, and then turned toward him, his expression serious. At only seven years old, his maturity continued to amaze her, and she wondered if this quality was what the Church had seen in him. She sat beside him on the bed and kissed his forehead. “Yes, my son.”

      The incessant clatter of hooves broke the early morning quiet as a small carriage, accompanied by a dozen riders, rattled along the pitted dirt road toward Mansfeld, Germany. Stripped of the usual finery and ceremonial red, the procession drew little attention, just as Pope Innocent VIII had intended. “We will be arriving shortly, Your Eminence,” Leonardo Battista commented as the carriage lurched from another pothole. As the pope’s most trusted cardinal, he worried about his companion’s health. The long trip had been taxing, and there was still the return trip to Rome once their business in Mansfeld was completed. Seated across from him in the plush compartment, the pope yawned wearily. Leonardo leaned forward and spoke just above the noise outside the carriage. “May I ask a question?”

      “Hmm.” A smile twitched at the corners of Leonardo’s mouth, but he quickly sobered. He knew he was pushing the margins of propriety, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Still, he hesitated. “What is it you wish to know?” the pope asked impatiently.

      “Excuse my boldness, Your Eminence, but is she really a witch?”

      “Does it matter?” Pope Innocent bit out, his expression stern, his eyes piercing through Leonardo. “She associated with witches. That is enough, is it not?”

      Leonardo sat back and lowered his eyes. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

      The pope yawned again. “Witches are heretics, and all heretics must be punished, their sins too great to be forgiven through Christ’s sacrifice.”

      Leonardo nodded. “But she will be allowed to live?”

      “By my grace, yes. And in return, she will become our willing servant. She is perfect, as is the boy.”

      “From what I hear, he is an outspoken hellion,” Leonardo murmured.

      The pope let out a loud barking laugh. “That he is. Intelligent, too, from what his instructors report.”

      “And that is what you seek?”

      The pope smiled and a shiver zipped up Leonardo’s spine. “Precisely.”

      It wasn’t his place to question the pope’s motives, but it still didn’t make sense. “What makes this boy special?” Leonardo thought. He is just the son of a copper smelter. “What are your plans for him?” he asked tentatively.

      The pope stared at—or rather—through him for a moment. “God’s will,” the pope said finally. “He will take part in Septem Montes, the Seven Hills project.”

      Septem Montes? That was the plan put in motion by the nephew of Pope Sixtus IV twenty years earlier. Sixtus’s nephew had been a mere altar boy at the time but had an intellect far beyond anything Sixtus had seen.

      “So, he will be the first,” Leonardo said slowly.

      The pope nodded. “Yes. It will not be easy on the lad, but then nothing worth doing ever comes easy.”

      Leonardo couldn’t help but shudder. He crossed himself then said a silent prayer for the boy.

      “Stop the carriage before we reach the Luther home,” Pope Innocent VIII said. “I will need to change out of these traveling clothes. It is important I give the proper impression.”

      “He is here. He is here!” Martin’s eyes shone bright as he raced toward the front door. “Mama, our special guest has arrived.”

      “I hardly think anyone could have missed it,” Margarethe muttered, wiping her hands on a kitchen cloth. She straightened the few treasures Martin had collected and displayed on the mantel above the hearth—a pigeon feather, a small stone, a gnarled twig—trying to appear calm, but her heart pounded in her ears and she feared she would faint at any moment. Taking a deep breath, she peeked at her youngest, Jacob, still asleep in his cradle, and then followed in Martin’s wake.

      Hans wrapped an arm over his wife’s shoulders and gave her a slight squeeze. “Shall we go greet the pope?” They stepped out onto the front stoop and waited as an inconspicuous carriage and entourage of cloaked riders came to a halt in front of their small stone cottage. Martin shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. Margarethe rested her hand on his small shoulder, as much to stop his fidgeting as to appear unified in front of the leaders of the Church.

      “Is he coming out?” Martin asked, glancing up at her.

      “When he’s ready,” Hans replied calmly. But truthfully, he was just as anxious as his son. He didn’t believe the accusations against his wife, but his opinion had proved to be of little consequence. Even his position on the town council wouldn’t have saved her from the pyre. Only by the pope’s grace had she been spared.

      Dust from the road had long since settled but still the carriage door remained closed. Has he changed his mind? Fear shot through Hans as they waited.

      Margarethe stood stiff as a board, staring at the carriage, dread filling her with each passing second. They have come to take my son. She shook her head. No. They have brought salvation. Without it, her life would be forfeited, and her family destroyed. Hans would lose his position with the town council, and her children would forever be persecuted as the spawn of a witch. No amount of indulgences would be enough to buy her family’s way into Heaven. She pulled her gaze away from the carriage and looked at Martin. So young, so innocent. She couldn’t bear the thought of what watching her be burned alive would do to him. Yet that was to be the fate of her two friends very soon. The town had found them guilty of witchcraft, blaming them for the harsh winter and dismal harvest, and now they awaited execution while she had been pardoned. While Anna and Sophia were indeed outspoken, independent, unmarried, and intelligent—making them outcasts—Margarethe had never witnessed