Find a Christian store

<< Go Back

The Mennonite Queen

By Patrick E. Craig

Order Now!

Prologue — 1559
Sic Fata Volunt, the Will of Fate

The woman groaned and turned on the couch, awakened by a patter of rain rattling the windows. Outside, dark heralds of the unseasonal storm hid the moon. Distant lightning illuminated the room. An unearthly light touched her face momentarily and then faded as the gray predawn took victory over the indigo night. A long roll of thunder shook the window again, and she pulled her shawl tighter, a frown furrowing her brow.
I must tell him… before I go…
Queen Isabella of Hungary focused her eyes on the candle sputtering in the persistent draft that plagued the building. The flickering light illuminated Filippo Lippi’s painting above the fireplace, Madonna and Child Enthroned.
Mary held the Christ-child, the love in her eyes captured perfectly by the artist. Jesus’s tiny hands clutched his mother’s robe, but he was not happy, nor was he comforted. Isabella could imagine his little mouth quivering—as though someone unseen was preparing to tear him from his mother’s arms.
Isabella blinked back tears.
Ah, my Abel, my son... where are you tonight?
The fire in the small stone fireplace had burned down, and the still-flickering coals cast dancing shadows. The mantle’s lone occupant, a golden crucifix, glowed in the flickering light from the embers—like the flames on Münster’s tower the night they escaped...
She sighed and turned away. The edict lay on the floor where it had fallen when she fell asleep. She reached down to retrieve it and a sharp pain shot through her arm. She groaned and picked up the document.
The door creaked open and her personal servant, Angyalka, entered the room. The diminutive young girl carried a tray with a cup, a small biscuit, butter, and a teapot. She set the food on the desk and hurried to the queen’s side
“Your Majesty, you did not go to bed last night. I looked in your bedchamber, but you were not there.”
“No, dear.” She sighed. “I was reading the edict of toleration, and I fell asleep. I remember wondering if it has done any good toward dispelling the antagonism between religions and then the storm woke me and I was still on the couch.”
“It has done much good. I’m sure of it.” Angyalka knelt beside her queen. “You must take better care of yourself, Your Majesty. You need more rest, and you hardly eat anymore. I worry. You are not well.”
Isabella brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from Angyalka’s cheek. “You dear girl, always with my best interests in your heart.” She pulled the girl close.
Angyalka returned the embrace. “It is because you are so kind, Your Majesty.”
Isabella kissed the girl’s forehead. She rose off the couch and made her way to the desk, the document in hand. Angyalka held her elbow, steadying her.
Isabella did her best to stand tall, but she had to admit the girl was right. Her strength was fading, and she often fell asleep in the midst of a task, so she lowered herself into the chair, the familiar aches and pains making themselves known once more, and spread the document before her. The sharp pain in her arm came again, but she ignored it. Her thoughts were far away.
Ah, so many days since Münster, my dearest Johan...
Angyalka hovered by her side, her hands twisting together.
Isabella noticed her maid’s distress. “I am fine, dear girl. Do not worry about me.” Isabella indicated the tray. “Would you spread my biscuit with a bit of our wonderful Transylvania butter and pour a half cup of tea? That will give me strength for the morning. And if you’ll please hand me Menno’s book, I will read while I eat my breakfast.”
The girl prepared the simple meal and fetched the requested tome from the bookshelf. She handed it to the queen, bowed and withdrew.
Isabella opened the worn copy, found her bookmark and turned to her favorite passage.
And this is the voice of Christ, “Ye have heard it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other.”
Staring into the embers, Isabella sipped her tea, seeing Menno Simons as she’d known him so many years earlier. His soft voice and gentle words of peace and nonviolence still echoed in her heart and soothed her soul. She could imagine him teaching the Anabaptists by the light of a different fire, a Frisian fire. She heard again the words that had captivated her heart.
Our weapons are not swords and spears, but patience, silence and hope, and the word of God. With these, we must maintain our cause and defend it. The Apostle Paul wrote, “The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God.” With these, we intend and desire to resist the kingdom of the devil; not with swords, spears, cannons, and coats of mail.
The door opened, and Angyalka peeked around it. “Dr. Biandrata has arrived, Your Majesty. May he come in?” Isabella nodded, and Angyalka opened the door.
Isabella beckoned for the doctor to enter.
His stern face broke into a smile as he approached. “Ah, you look much better today, Your Majesty. The tonics I gave you are working.”
“Yes, Giorgio, but they are bitter to the palate. When I am drinking them, I often consider death a better option.”
The doctor chuckled. “Still have your sense of humor, I see.”
She looked up at her physician and teacher. “I am not afraid to die, Giorgio.” She chuckled. “Ah, don’t look so shocked, my old friend. I know I am ill, and I know the end is coming soon. But I have my faith… and my memories. And you have taught me much about God and the ways of men, rich treasures locked forever in my heart.”
The doctor bowed. “Your Majesty honors me, but my small ideas—”
“And where did I learn to welcome diversity, to tolerate differences of belief?” The queen opened Menno’s book. “God has blessed me to sit at the feet of wise men like you, men who taught me the true meaning of our Lord’s words.” Isabella leaned forward in her chair.
“My life has been filled with religious turmoil. Luther’s Protestant Reformation burst upon Europe at the time of my birth. The peasants revolted against religious intolerance in Germany and were brutally suppressed. And then the Catholics wiped out the Anabaptists at Münster—only a few escaped the sword and the flames—when I was sixteen-years-old. Catholics hate Lutherans, Unitarians hate everyone and Anabaptists are burned alive. But I was blind to the hatred and persecution. Men like you taught me to respect an individual’s right to decide how best to practice their faith.” She fell back and closed her eyes.
“I must rest again, Giorgio.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, you must.” He took her hand and helped her to the couch. Then he eased toward the door. “I will call again tomorrow.”
“You are like an old mother hen, Giorgio, always cackling and safeguarding her chicks. But I do not need protection from death, for it only means I shall be with Him, forever.”

Isabella tossed on her bed, in the grip of a dream. Shouts and screams reverberated off the burning buildings that surrounded her. She was running, running from the heat, running from the chaos, terrified of the soldiers, who were everywhere. The gates of the city rose in front of her but before she could get out they swung open, and a fat man in the robes of a Catholic priest rode in, mounted on a white horse. She screamed…
And then Johan was with her. His powerful arms wrapped around her, infusing her with his strength.
“Come, my love,” he murmured. “This way.”
Together they ran. Isabella was holding a small child whose tiny arms clung to her, and then she saw a small, unguarded door in the wall.
“Through here, my dearest,” he whispered.
His strong hands guided her through the gate. Behind them, a hoarse voice shouted, “Find them, find them now! Kill him and bring her to me, alive.”
Together they hurried along toward the river. Johan’s powerful hands guided her, kept her on her feet and strengthened her, but she could not see the path.
“This way, Isabella. Lift your feet, run like the wind. I am with you, I am always with you…”
Isabella awoke, sobbing and curled in a fetal position, like every time she dreamed of Johan.

Propped with pillows, Isabella lay in her bed, her breathing shallow, her body wracked with pain. Her dark hair was spread around her head like a halo. Beside the bed, her grim-faced doctor stood watching. Angyalka sat in a small chair next to the bed, weeping.
Isabella’s eyes fluttered open. “Ah, my friends… here to bid me farewell?”
She heard Angyalka burst into a fresh paroxysm of weeping.
The doctor leaned down and placed a damp cloth on her forehead.
Isabella reached up and took the doctor’s hand. “Has my son, John, returned?”
“A messenger came this morning.” He gently returned her hand to her side. “John is hastening home. He is sorry for the delay, but Suleiman…”
“Yes, yes. Suleiman...” She closed her eyes. “I will wait for John.”

The next time Isabella awakened, a beloved face was bending over her, the eyes sad, the mouth knit in a frown. “Ah, my son.” She smiled. “Away so long.”
“Only a month, mother. You know how Suleiman is. We must attend to his wishes first. But without him, Ferdinand and the Hapsburgs would take Hungary.”
“Sit, John, and listen.” Isabella took her son’s hand. “I have something important to tell you before I depart this earth.”
“You are not going anywhere, mother. You will live and get well.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “We never lie to each other, John.”
“No, Mother.”
“Let’s not begin now. I am dying. That is a truth we both know. But before I go, I must tell you the one thing I have held from you.” She motioned to him. “Sit here by me.”
John sat. “What is it, Mother?”
Isabella pushed higher on the pillows. “John Sigismund Zápolya, son of the king of Hungary and protector of Transylvania, you are my only heir.” She closed her eyes and then slowly opened them. “But you are not my only son.”
“Not your only son?” John’s eyes widened. “But, Mother, how can that be?”
I name “My first son, your older brother, is named Abel. I have not seen him since I was a seventeen-year-old. He was the son of my first husband, Johan Hirschberg.”
John stared at his mother, mouth agape. “But, how… when?”
Isabella smiled. “If you will bear it, I will tell you the story…” She stopped for a moment, smiling at the sweet memory. “Long ago, when I was a young girl living at Wawel Castle in Poland…”

Order Now!

<< Go Back


Developed by Camna, LLC

This is a service provided by ACFW, but does not in any way endorse any publisher, author, or work herein.