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

His breathing quickened and his mind soon muddled. “ I could not have killed Ansel.”
    A loud, obnoxious belch took Wil’s attention. He whirled to see Father Pious rolling off of his exhausted donkey in the center of the village path. With both feet planted securely on the ground, the priest straightened his twisted habit and wiped his hands across his sleeves. He heaved thick phlegm from his lungs and spat it to the ground, cleared his throat, and announced his presence.
    “Good morrow, my flock.”
    The villagers knelt as he had taught them; all, that is, but Wil whose hair rose along his neck like an angry dog’s. The lad stormed toward his hovel as the father and a chattering Karl passed through the yard gate.
    Karl scampered ahead and politely held open the door. The priest, pleased with the respectful boy, smiled, then filled the narrow entrance, squeezing the morning’s sunshine into thin shafts of dusty light.
    Frau Anka stepped lightly from Marta’s bedchamber, wiping her hands on her ankle-length gown. She promptly knelt to kiss the priest’s hand, Maria following in kind. Karl stood proudly behind the priest, confident and hopeful for the blessing Father Pious’s presence would surely bring.
    But Wil burst through the door and folded his arms with a scowl that was offered with unreserved irreverence. The priest turned to the boy and extended his right hand. Wil stiffened.
    “Junge,” said Father Pious sternly. “I believe thou hast forgotten thyself.” He thrust his hand closer to the boy’s face.
    Wil sneered. “I should rather pucker my lips to the arse of a pig than that.”
    The priest threatened. “Bend thy knee and kiss the hand of this servant of God.”
    “No.”
    Father Pious slowly lowered his hand and frowned at the defiant boy. “I baptized thee, Johann Wilhelm, as well as thy brother, Karl, and thy sister, Maria. I blessed thy father when he followed duty and have been a protector of this household since that distant day.” His voice grew louder. “It is no wonder to me that this family is suffering, with devil spirits like thy father’s and thine sleeping under its roof.” He spun and faced the others staring dumbstruck and horrified. “Leave me with this incorrigible.”
    Frau Anka, Maria, and Karl needed no further urging and they rushed out the door, Anka careful to leave it slightly ajar.
    Pinked and bulging, Pious seethed at Wil. The nostrils in his bulbous nose flared as he drew a deep breath and stalked the rigid lad. “Johann Wilhelm!” he bellowed, “supposed son of the baker of Weyer. I believe thee to be the bastard child of Lucifer.”
    Wil opened his mouth to protest, but Pious increased his volume yet more. “Silence. Be silent, wicked son of Satan, or I’ll surely summon the angels of glory to snatch thy pathetic, cursed soul and bind it in the Pit where it belongs.”
    The boy clenched his jaw, determined to hold fast.
    Pious raised clenched fists high in the air and roared, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, I strike thee down.” His thick, right fist crashed against the side of Wil’s face, splitting flesh by the cheekbone and knocking the boy backward onto the quilt covering his straw bed.
    Father Pious charged forward, ready to strike once more when his crazed eye detected the corner of a leather bag now exposed in the straw. He stopped and pointed. “What is this? Hand it to me.”
    Wil hesitated and muttered an oath.
    “I command thee to give that to me.”
    Wil snatched the bag and clutched it behind his back. “It is nothing of your account, nothing but an …”
    Pious lunged toward the lad and deftly caught him by the throat. He wrenched the bag from the gasping boy’s grasp and pushed him hard away. The priest shook the bag’s contents onto the table beside him, and, with a look of disbelief, stared at the supply of herbs and medicinal concoctions. He uncorked a small bottle and held the stopper close to his nose. “Humph