The Ballad of the Scapegoat
Bruges has seen many a bastard, but none sang as sweetly as Joos van den Rijm.
The poet himself would not have denied it.
Perched on an ale-stained table in The Bear, a well-worn tavern near the Bourse, van den Rijm lifted his cup in mock reverence before strumming a low, deliberate chord on his lute. The fire cast flickering shadows along the beams, darkened by decades of smoke and whispered confessions. This place had seen many men pass through its doors; some were forgotten, and some were made legends.
A hush settled over the room as he began to play, his voice curling through the smoky air. The melody wove through the tavern, drawing in drunkards and merchants alike. Some had heard it in Antwerp or Ghent, though never from the poet’s lips. Others listened warily, glancing toward the magistrate at the bar, who was already scowling into his beer.
Van den Rijm played on.
“The events of 1558 are no mystery,” the magistrate finally interrupted, his voice cutting through the music with brutal clarity. “Justice was done. The city purged its filth—we all took part in cleansing it. You poets love to dress up history in finer clothes than it deserves.”
As the magistrate spoke, Joos van den Rijm let his fingers drift from the strings and, with casual amusement, flipped the lute onto its back, balancing it on one knee. He spun it idly, the polished wood catching the candlelight, his grin widening as if the instrument found the interruption entertaining. When the crowd’s murmurs settled, he grabbed the lute by its neck, gave it a theatrical twirl, and resumed plucking at the strings as if the magistrate’s words had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
Van den Rijm grinned. “Ah, but what is history if not a song retold until it pleases the powerful?”
A chuckle rippled through the crowd.
“Besides,” he continued, plucking out the next refrain, “I did not invent François and Willem’s fate, good sir—only the melody.” He leaned in conspiratorially, smirking. “Which I stole, naturally. A good tune is wasted on the pious.”
Laughter broke out, though quieter this time.
The magistrate’s expression darkened, but before he could reply, a burly cooper near the hearth chimed in, raising his mug. “I heard you were thrown out of Ghent for calling a bishop a barnyard rooster. Is that true or just another of your embellishments?”
Van den Rijm sighed theatrically. “Ah, yes. The Ghent incident. A grievous misunderstanding.” He plucked at his lute, adopting a wistful expression. “I meant it as a compliment! Roosters are vigilant creatures—watchful, commanding, and prone to strutting. But alas, the bishop took offense.” He grinned. “Churchmen have such delicate feathers.”
The cooper roared with laughter. The magistrate did not.
Someone at the bar jeered, “Didn’t you try to join the court in Antwerp?” He nudged his companion. “Didn’t last long, though.”
“Yes,” another chimed in, “until you had to flee dressed as a monk—ruined your disguise by singing bawdy drinking songs before you even left the city.”
Van den Rijm set a hand over his heart. “You wound me, gentlemen. I wasn’t fleeing—I was merely traveling at an expedited pace.”
The magistrate scowled. “That ballad of yours is nothing but sedition. Tell me, minstrel—did François and Willem even exist?”
Van den Rijm’s smile flickered slightly before returning to the crowd.
“Oh, they existed,” he said. “They walked these very streets, flesh and blood, before the law made ghosts of them.” His fingers danced over the strings again, softer, almost reverent.
The tavern fell quiet. Even those skeptical of his tale found themselves caught in the pull of his voice.
For a moment, no one spoke. The magistrate tapped his fingers against his mug, his frown deepening. The cooper shifted in his seat. A serving girl paused mid-pour, her gaze locked onto the poet as if he had summoned ghosts into the room. A flicker of something—unease, reverence, curiosity—passed through the assembled crowd. Even the embers in the hearth seemed to glow a little brighter as if eager to listen.
Van den Rijm let the moment linger—the flicker of candlelight across expectant faces, the thick scent of ale in the air, even the magistrate, despite his frown, leaning forward ever so slightly.
He lowered his voice, letting it curl like smoke into the rafters. “The year was 1558…”
And as his fingers wove the first aching chords, the world outside the tavern dimmed. The walls of The Bear melted into the past, the candlelight flickered into dawn’s mist, and suddenly, it was 1558 once more—where a lone peasant, cold and weary, trudged toward the city gates, a sack of fish slung over one shoulder, fear flickering in his gut…
