The second bout went much like the first, with one cur injured and the bear bitten badly on one foreleg, fighting for survival in a contest that it must know it could not win, standing its ground in the falling snow as the curs and their handler left the pit, ignoring the feints of the pikemen as blood dripped from its muzzle and the mangled fingers of one paw.

After the third bout it was hunched and trembling, panting heavy gouts of steam. Its pelt was slicked into little points and the ground around it was a trampled mess of mud and bloody slush. After the handler had hauled his curs out of the pit, it dropped to an ungainly crouch, holding its injured paw against its chest.

Pilgrim was shivering and sweating inside his heavy fur coat, sick and headachy from the noise of the crowd, the stink of smoke from the fish-oil lamps mixing with the sweet scent of blood. He wanted the spectacle to be over as quickly as possible, was dismayed when the bear pushed to its feet and with a quick liquid motion swiped at one of the pikemen when he came a little too close. The man fell on his back as he dodged the blow and the bear raised its head as the crowd whistled and hooted, the noise rising a notch as Noble Seatree came down the aisle behind two curs on chain leashes. One was the brindled cur which had menaced Pilgrim and Gentle when the constable had paid his first visit; the other was long and lean and grey. The constable had shucked his coat and was bare-chested in leather trews. Thick white scars hatched the ball of his left shoulder.

Gentle leaned close to Pilgrim and said over the noise, ‘He comes in for the kill when others have done all the hard work.’

After the usual ceremonial flourishes Noble Seatree and his brace of curs descended to the floor of the pit. There was an expectant hush as he knelt between his curs and whispered to them; then he unclipped the leashes and stood, and people roared and stamped. A small rain of objects – cups and bottles, chunks of tuber, a shoe – arced out from the men’s benches and dropped around the bear. It ignored the missiles, watching as the curs advanced. Noble Seatree whistled, a single sharp note, and the curs cut left and right and closed on the bear, dodging its frantic swipes and slamming into it and bringing it down. Tearing and biting as it kicked under them, face down, the grey cur fastened to its good foreleg, the brindled cur worrying at its neck. Pilgrim, dry-mouthed and feverish, leaned on his cane and pushed to his feet because everyone else on the men’s side of the pit had stood up. Most of the women were on their feet too.