Scapegoat

Donald Proffit’s Scapegoat is one of those rare historical novels that doesn’t just recreate the past—it interrogates it. Set in 1558 Bruges, a city clinging to its decaying splendor and gripped by religious paranoia, the novel unspools the tragic tale of François van Daele and Willem de Clerck—two young men whose love and lives are consumed by fear, power, and the cruel machinery of moral judgment. It’s a grim and lyrical work that lands uncomfortably close to our present moment, and that’s precisely what makes it so compelling.

The novel opens in 1596 with a fictional balladeer, Joos van den Rijm, recounting the events of 1558 in a smoky Bruges tavern. Joos serves as both chorus and provocateur, challenging official history with a mischievous grin: “Ah, but what is history if not a song retold until it pleases the powerful?” That line stuck with me—not just because it’s sharply written, but because it sets the tone for a narrative that’s deeply aware of how storytelling itself can become an act of resistance.

What follows is a vividly detailed plunge into Bruges during Ascension Day festivities, where puppet morality plays and parades mask a deeply fractured society. Matthias Engel, a journeyman weaver, is our initial outsider lens into this world. His arrival in the city and fast friendship with François and Willem—two locals navigating the treacherous terrain of queerness in a theocratic regime—grounds the novel in lived experience rather than historical abstraction.

The craftsmanship in this book is ridiculous—in the best way. Proffit’s descriptions of the morality wagon in Market Square, with its pulleys, pipes, and angelic statuary, are practically steampunk in their mechanical beauty. “It was as if the entire Hierarchy of Angels had been deliberately caged for the journey to Bruges,” Matthias observes. That line captures both the city’s grandeur and its suffocating religiosity.

But Scapegoat isn’t just period drama with good prose. It’s a meditation on otherness—how institutions scapegoat the vulnerable to preserve power. François and Willem’s affection is tender and tentative, unfolding in stolen glances and whispered conversations.

The contemporary parallel makes the novel hit even harder. In his preface, Proffit links his narrative to his ancestor Susannah North Martin, executed in the Salem witch trials, and to the ongoing persecution of LGBTQ+ individuals. This isn’t historical fiction as escape—it’s historical fiction as mirror.

Scapegoat is a powerful, gorgeously written novel that blends historical immersion with emotional urgency. It’s not an easy read, but it’s an important one. If you’re interested in stories that ask hard questions and linger after the final page, this one’s worth your time.