Free In The Name of The Father by A. J. Quinnell

tell by their faces that he had given what they had travelled far to receive. It struck him that he too had received from them the gifts of love and inspiration.
    He watched as Father Panrowski shuffled his broken body across the thick carpet and suddenly he realised that there was yet another priceless gift he could give this old man, and in giving receive comfort himself. Quietly he asked him to remain behind for a few minutes.
    When the door closed behind the others he took the priest by the arm and helped him to a well-cushioned, high-backed chair. As Panrowski settled into it, his face puzzled, the Cardinal said, ‘Father, we have all been uplifted by your suffering and your faith. I would be deeply moved and honoured if you would hear my confession.’
    At first the old priest did not seem to understand. He raised his head and asked, ‘Confession?’
    ‘Yes, Father, my confession.’
    Father Panrowski was dazed. He had heard that such things occasionally happened. Even that the Holy Father sometimes asked this of a humble parish priest. He stammered, ‘But Eminence . . . I am not . . . not worthy.’
    ‘Father, there are none more worthy in our beloved Church.’
    The Cardinal pulled up a low velvet-topped stool. He sat on it next to, and below, the priest. He took his hands in his and bowed his head.
    ‘Please, Father.’
    Father Panrowski heard his own voice. A hoarse whisper.
    ‘What do you remember?’
    The Cardinal spoke, his voice low, humble but resonant.
    ‘Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I have let my temperament and my impatience dominate my pastoral mission. On occasions I have failed to understand the frailties and humanity of some who are around me and who would help me.’
    The priest breathed more easily. This would be the confession of the natural infringements of a powerful personality whose intellect occasionally overshadowed his compassion.
    So it took its course. He listened sympathetically and admonished gently. He assumed it was over but the Cardinal remained sitting, his head bent. Perhaps a minute or two passed. The Cardinal raised his head slightly. He was looking at his desk. The priest felt his hand squeezed; clasped tight by his leader. Mennini was breathing deeply. He lowered his head again and spoke in a whisper. Spoke of a thing far beyond any infringement. Queried painfully whether he was perpetrating an act of God or an act of survival and could the two be compatible? It was a plea from one who suffered a little to one who had suffered a lot.
    The priest was rigid in mind and body. Many seconds passed, spaced out by the soft ticking of the ormolu clock. It was too much for this priest but he was the confessor and he had to find words. Words of comfort. Words of understanding. They were expected. Yearned for. He was as old as this man at his feet, but infinitely older in relating faith and truth to pain and reality. He lowered his head and said softly, ‘My son, yes, my son, it is wrong to do wrong for what you think is right. But it is wrong to do nothing against evil. We sin because we are human and Our Lord understands and judges . . . and you will be forgiven.’
    He felt the pressure on his hands lighten. Slowly the Cardinal raised his head and crossed himself. Then he lifted the gold Crucifix from his waist and kissed the tiny, spreadeagled image.
    They rose and he helped the priest across the room. Silently the priest lowered his head and kissed the Cardinal’s ring. Then he straightened his bent body and looked him in the eyes. A look of understanding. He said, ‘Eminence, I shall pray for you.’
    ‘Thank you, Father. Have a safe journey. God be with you.’
    As the heavy door closed Mennini raised a hand to his side and felt the outline of the key in its little secret pocket. He also felt comforted.
     

 
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
    ‘You are too beautiful, much too beautiful!’
    ‘I’m sorry, Father.’
    The Bacon Priest laughed.
    ‘Ah, I wonder if a woman