He stumbles from the duel, mailed hand dripping with blood, ears ringing so loud he can’t hear the raucous cheer of the crowd but instead feel it in his chest, where an ache blooms as his lungs burn with exertion. A man is dead and they are clapping. They got their fifteen minutes of blood. That's what all the timber in the stands was for, all the cloth for the flags, the mutton and turnips and cabbage for the feast, the boys for the squires and rubies for the ladies. All that, for the promise of a man dying before them. He has to smile, as a purse of gold is passed into his hands. They’re going to keep doing it, so it may as well be him who gets paid for it.
Paddy Dobson
12th March 2023