It was a chilly May morning, and Cardinal Schonbrun's knees cracked as he took his seat beside Father Meyer in the Passionspielhaus. Father Meyer heard the noise very clearly; he was acutely aware of every sound, smell, and sight around him: of the splinters in the planks of the large, open-air stage before them, the smell of dew, the dampness of his palms. The murmurs of anticipation of the assembling crowd, and those of speculation—and derision—when his own people, scattered among the thousands, caught sight of him. He was aware that he looked like a prisoner, wedged between his friend Hans Ahrenkiel, the bishop of Munich, and his nemesis, the cardinal. He was aware that his life as a priest would be over that day.
The cardinal scowled at Father Meyer and said, «Is it true what I've just heard?»
Father Meyer licked his lips. How had he hoped to keep it a secret? «That depends on what it is, Eminence.»
«Did you give absolution to the wandelnder Leichnam this morning?
Though his heart sank—someone had betrayed him—Father Meyer regarded the cardinal steadily. «Ja. Does that surprise you?»
Cardinal Schonbrun made a shocked noise. On Father Meyer's left, the bishop shook his head mournfully.
«Did it partake of the Holy Eucharist?»
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