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to the last circuit of the beasts, and with the fitful blowing from a couple of sackbuts, the first round began. A pair of great English mastiffs, two and half foot at the shoulder and heavily built, were unchained and set against the towering six foot of Terrible Tom, each massive paw armed with claws large enough to disembowel a beast at a single swipe . With their short, tawny coats bristling with outrage, they dropped into a half stance, snarling and clashing their heavy, black faced jaws. The crowd screamed, hungry with anticipation, and the dogs’ howls were overwhelmed by the storm of noise. If those ravens hadn’t left, the wave of noise would have washed them off the eaves like a roiling flood. However it was not the dogs that Ned was watching so carefully but the pattern of wagers made down by the counting table. Slowly a mischievous smile arched across his face and he settled down to watch the show.
    Baiting was an old and favoured pastime for Londoners. Even the King liked to watch the contests. The idea was that an animal, be it bear, bull or other combination of beasts, was loosely tethered in the centre of a sand covered ring, and fought to the death against well trained dogs singly or in pairs. A good bout could last for an hour and a prized bear could maim or kill over a dozen dogs. The whole trick of the play was to place your wager on which set of dogs or the bear would triumph at the end of the match. A good bet could see you walk off richer by a heavy bag of golden angels. A loss, of course, was not so good, and left a man vulnerable to the ill winds of fate and an easy mark for the hucksters who prowled the Southwark stews. At the centre of all this commerce stood Canting Michael, the canny cony–catcher who managed the Pits, the wagers and was the master of the rough and tumble lads who ensured the collection of debts, as well as other nefarious tasks. Unfortunately for Ned, Canting was at this moment dead keen to renew an old acquaintance, and openly boasted of his plans for young ‘Red Ned’. Only the musty player’s beard stood between him and an unwelcome reunion. But Ned had a plan of his own for Canting Michael.
    ***
    Will Coverdale was beside himself with anguish, shredding his fine linen kerchief in clenched fingers, as he staggered through the bear pits doorway. “Oh No! Sheer knavery, a half a dozen angels lost!”
    Ned gave him a pat of consolation and carefully guided his companions to the street outside, making sure they always walked between him and Canting Michael, who was hissing his discomfort to a pale faced, nervously twitching minion. It was too bad about Will. His friend had been so happy a short while ago, gustily cheering the dogs on with the rest of the audience.
    It was the fifth pair of dogs, and Terrible Tom was clearly flagging, his fur was torn and bloody along his massive forearms. Those ferocious claws had downed the previous four pairs of mastiffs, scattering their remains across the clotted sand. Now it had come to the final pair of dogs and the crowd was roaring with frenzy at this, the last battle. Unlike the previous set, these beasts moved their hundred and fifty pounds of eager muscle in linked symmetry, one baiting while the other lunged at the exposed belly or flanks. It was a useful tactic and spoke of good training by their handler. By this stage the betting had been closed down and Canting Michael could be seen leaning against a post with a sneeringly satisfied smile. No beast had ever survived so long. It was going to be a victory for the mastiffs. And then in an instant it changed. Both dogs lost the pattern of attack and halted in midst of a joint strike before being bowled over by a single backhanded blow, landing heavily against the flint stone facing of the pit. The fight was over—Terrible Tom o’Taunton was victorious.
    Ned’s remembrance of the struggle was broken by another peevish complaint from Will. “Ned! I can see your smirk through