Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade by C. D. Baker Page B

and speechless. The archbishop stood and nodded to the legate politely, though another’s sharp eye might have noticed a hint of restrained objection. His Grace reordered his vestments and slowly quieted his congregation with his raised crosier. After waiting patiently, he finally commanded the bell tower to peal. Then, having gained some measure of control he spoke solemnly. “Know this: that you are sent out like lambs among wolves. Go with God in faith; go with our prayers that He will deliver thee from thine enemies.”
    The archbishop raised his arms in farewell, grasping his staff with his right hand and extending it over the heads at his feet. He closed his eyes and, with a rising voice, pronounced, “Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight thyselves in the Lord and He shall bestow upon you the desires of thy heart. Commit thy way to the Lord, trust in Him and He shall do this. He shall make thy righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of thy cause like the noonday sun.”
    Then he held his place as if numbed by his own words and stood in absolute silence. His audience hushed. He stared at the heights of the ceiling with a look of sudden anguish, arched his back, and stretched his arms wide as if to embrace all heaven and earth. Then he prayed silently, and turned away.

     
    Wil had spent this unusual Sabbath nagged by curiosity and he listened with piqued interest to the bells that tolled without good order. He had wrestled with a gnawing guilt over Ansel’s death, but now dismissed it as an accidental act of self-defense. To escape his nagging conscience, he minded his ailing mother and passed time studying Lukas’s medicinal herbs and roots that he had strewn about his table. He pinched a bit of this and that and held the ground herbs to his nose. Some smelled sweet, others musty, but he recognized few. Several labels had been fortuitously scratched on the pottery vials and the tops of the tins. He shook a handful of dried plants from a wallet and was able to identify thyme and buckthorn. Ah, there. The boy brightened. Yes, thistle and sage, rue and hyssop. These I do know well. And here, sweet mint and camomile. Thanks be to Emma. I should have listened better.
    He recalled Father Pious’s suggesting he find atropa belladonna for his mother’s fever, and though void of affection for the priest, Wil thought the medicinal advice worthy of consideration. Upon close examination of an etching on a narrow tin, he deciphered the faint inscription, “X Atropa Bel.” The rest was too worn to read. Content to have found the herb of choice, he proceeded to brew an infusion for his mother.
    Marta had shown some surprising improvement during the day and her fever seemed somewhat lessened. “Drink this,” Wil offered. He secretly hoped she would notice he had delivered the brew in her favorite clay dish.
    Marta cupped the bowl with trembling hands and lifted the hot brew to her lips. She sipped gingerly, then pursed her lips and frowned. “Too hot! And what is it… some witch’s steep, little man?” she scolded.
    “No, mother,” sighed Wil. “’Tis a potion proposed by the priest… a remedy for the fever and you’d be well to take it down.”
    “Father Albert, I hope,” snapped Marta hoarsely.
    “Nay, Father Pious,” answered Wil curtly.
    “Pious! I should like nothing more that man has to offer.” She set the bowl on her lap and looked away.
    Wil nodded. “Aye, but an herb is an herb.”
    Marta stared at the drink before lifting it again to her lips. “This hardly fills the belly. Get me soup.”
    Wil dutifully went to the common room and gathered a handful of dried peas, some millet, and a scallion from the row of crocks shelved near the door. He stepped outside to the barrel and ladled some water into his iron kettle when he heard the first sounds of returning villagers. He squinted his eyes in the fading light of mid-evening and strained his ears to