Barefoot a boy chases the mob over hot brown cobbles and catches them at the Mile, flesh steaming under the yellow sun. It is dark among the sweat drenched rabble under bodies unwashed for months. He follows light slicing dark limbs and his feet are trampled till they bleed. The thick air catches his throat and he gulps, swallowing vomit. He squeezes through bone and muscle and is pushed and elbowed onto the road.

Ahead the Archbishop riding a horse and cart. Following on foot, his wrists bound to the cart by rope, is the Idiot. His nose is bent and broken and he wears a pointed hat.

The mob cry,

Bastard!

Heretic!

Scum!

The boy tugs at the rags of a man shaking a spear, his black beard flecked with spit.

‘What did he do?’ the boy asks.

‘I don’t know,’ the man said, looking down at the boy. ‘But it was something bad!’

They went on. Toward the black church where bodies sway on hooks. In the square the animals scatter, fleeing the noise. Mangy goats collect in a corner. Chickens strut and change direction. When the dogs bark their ribs show.

The Archbishop cracks the reins and the horse quickens up the hill. Some from the mob rush to the alleys to piss or to squat. A group of brothers beat on the drums and flat notes are blown from a flute. A fat man laughs behind a cart of rotting fish.

The Idiot stumbles on the hill, the crowd scream,

Filth!

              Fool!

                             Whore!

The boy grabs the hem of a woman’s skirt.

‘What did he do?’ the boy asks.

‘Something terrible, I should reckon,’ the woman says, reaching for a stone.

The boy wipes flies from his face. Beer is passed in frothing tankards, a toothless man hands him one. He drinks greedily, it tastes bitter and foul, he drinks some more, passes it on.

They reach the moat. The sinking sun falls on brown water where rats swim leisurely as though through slime. The Archbishop guides the horse across the drawbridge. The Idiot follows, tears are streaming down his face.

The mob stop at the bridge and spread out along the bank. The boy looks down at the river where a pig has fallen and is trying to stay afloat. The church bells toll the dead hours as the Archbishop and the Idiot pass between the black towers. The portcullis is raised, chains clank and resonate in the castle grounds.

The crowd cheer.

‘What did he do?’ the boys asks.

Nobody answers.

The sun slides under the horizon, bleeding out onto the clouds. In the silence someone belches, another farts. The boy takes a swig from a tankard and cries,

              Dog!

                             Pagan!

                                           Idiot!

The crowd cheer, the boy smiles.

In dirty water, a snout drops beneath the surface. Bubbles form and burst.

May 2020