Rumors were rife of intrigue in sacred places, echoes of the times when popes murdered each other like kings. It was all they needed now with the Church being attacked from all sides. Not that he wasn’t up for one more fight; what bothered him the most was something far more fundamental. How could they sell the idea of being anointed—rather than appointed—when the Holy Spirit couldn’t pick a winner to save His life? The ruddy-faced man had raised the same question the last time they met at Moss Twomey’s funeral. The bishop had thought long and hard about going. The Boys were out of favor but he had known Moss since they were young and starting down the paths they were given. He went, but wore his hat and scarf in the hope that prying eyes would pass over him. And, as they filed out to their cars, he and John Joe had the chance for a quick chat. They still enjoyed each other’s company but they were both buckling under the weight the years were piling on them. They had lost their places of prominence in Irish life.
