Now there were only two dogs left. They both darted in and out of the bear’s reach several times, until its lunges at them became perfunctory; then they began to circle it, moving faster and faster. The bear turned this way and that, trying to keep them both in sight. Exhausted and bleeding copiously, it could hardly stay upright. The dogs went around in ever-decreasing circles. The earth beneath the bear’s mighty paws had been turned to mud by all the blood. One way or another, the end was in sight. Finally the two dogs attacked at once. One went for the throat and the other for the belly. With a last desperate swipe, the bear slashed the dog at its throat. There was a grisly fountain of blood. The crowd yelled their approval. At first Tom thought the dog had killed the bear, but it was the other way around: the blood came from the dog, which now fell to the ground with its throat slashed open. Its blood pumped out for a moment longer, then stopped. It was dead. But in the meantime the last dog had ripped open the bear’s belly, and now its guts were falling out. The bear swiped feebly at the dog. The dog easily evaded the blow and struck again, savaging the bear’s intestines. The bear swayed and seemed about to fall. The roar of the crowd grew to a crescendo. The bear’s ripped guts gave out a revolting stench. It gathered its strength and struck at the dog again. The blow connected, and the dog jumped sideways, with blood oozing from a slash along its back; but the wound was superficial and the dog knew the bear was finished, so it went right back on the attack, biting at the bear’s guts until, at last, the great animal closed its eyes and slumped to the ground, dead.

The bearward came forward and took the victorious dog by the collar. The Kingsbridge butcher and his apprentice stepped out of the crowd and began to cut the bear up for its meat: Tom supposed they had agreed on a price with the bearward in advance. Those who had won their bets demanded to be paid. Everyone wanted to pat the surviving dog. Tom looked for Jonathan. He could not see him.

The child had been just a couple of yards away throughout the bearbaiting. How had he managed to disappear? It must have happened while the sport was at its height, and Tom was concentrating on the spectacle. Now he was cross with himself. He searched the crowd. Tom was a head taller than everyone else, and Jonathan was easy to spot with his monk’s habit and shaved head; but he was nowhere to be seen.

The child could not come to much harm in the priory close, but he might come across things that Prior Philip would prefer him not to see: whores servicing their clients up against the priory wall, for example. Looking around, Tom glanced up at the scaffolding high on the cathedral building, and there, to his horror, he saw a small figure in a monastic robe.

He felt a moment of panic. He wanted to yell Don’t move, you’ll fall! but his words would have been lost in the noise of the fair. He pushed through the crowd toward the cathedral. Jonathan was running along the scaffolding, absorbed in some imaginary game, heedless of the danger that he might slip and fall over the edge and tumble eighty feet to his death-

Tom quenched the terror rising like bile in his throat.

The scaffolding did not rest on the ground, but on heavy timbers inserted into purpose-built holes high up in the walls. These timbers jutted out six feet or so. Stout poles were laid across them and roped to them, and then trestles made of flexible saplings and woven reeds were laid on the poles. The scaffolding was normally reached via the spiral stone staircases built into the thickness of the walls. But those staircases had been closed off today. So how had Jonathan climbed up? There were no ladders-Tom had seen to that, and Jack had double-checked. The child must have climbed up the stepped end of the unfinished wall. The ends had been built up with wood, so that they no longer provided easy access; but Jonathan could have clambered over the blocks. The child was full of self-confidence-but all the same he fell over at least once a day.

Tom reached the foot of the wall and looked up fearfully. Jonathan was playing happily eighty feet above. Fear gripped Tom’s heart with a cold hand. He shouted at the top of his voice: “Jonathan!”

The people around him were startled, and looked up to see what he was shouting at. As they spotted the child on the scaffolding they pointed him out to their friends. A small crowd gathered.

Jonathan had not heard. Tom cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again. “Jonathan! Jonathan!”

This time the boy heard. He looked down, saw Tom, and waved.

Tom shouted: “Come down!”

Jonathan seemed about to obey, then he looked at the wall along which he would have to walk, and the steep flight of steps he would have to descend, and he changed his mind. “I can’t!” he called back, and his high voice floated down to the people on the ground.

Tom realized he was going to have to go up and get him. “Just stay where you are until I reach you!” he shouted. He pushed the blocks of wood off the lower steps and mounted the wall.

It was four feet wide at the foot, but it narrowed as it went up. Tom climbed steadily. He was tempted to rush, but he forced himself to be calm. When he glanced up he saw Jonathan sitting on the edge of the scaffolding, dangling his short legs over the sheer drop.

At the very top the wall was only two feet thick. Even so, it was plenty wide enough to walk on, provided you had strong nerves, and Tom did. He made his way along the wall, jumped down onto the scaffolding, and took Jonathan in his arms. He was swamped with relief. “You foolish boy,” he said, but his voice was full of love, and Jonathan hugged him.

After a moment Tom looked down again. He saw a sea of upturned faces: a hundred or more people were watching. They probably thought it was another show, like the bear-baiting. Tom said to Jonathan: “All right, let’s go down now.” He set the boy on the wall, and said: “I’ll be right behind you, so don’t worry.”

Jonathan was not convinced. “I’m scared,” he said. He held out his arms to be picked up, and when Tom hesitated he burst into tears.

“Never mind, I’ll carry you,” Tom said. He was not very happy about it, but Jonathan was now too upset to be trusted at this height. Tom clambered onto the wall, knelt beside Jonathan, picked him up, and stood upright.

Jonathan held on tight.

Tom stepped forward. Because he had the child in his arms he could not see the stones immediately beneath his feet. That could not be helped. With his heart in his mouth, he walked gingerly along the wall, placing his feet cautiously. He had no fear for himself, but with the child in his arms he was terrified. At last he came to the beginning of the steps. It was no wider here at first, but somehow it seemed less precipitous, with the steps in front of him. He started down gratefully. With each step he felt calmer. When he reached the level of the gallery, and the wall widened to three feet, he paused to let his heartbeat slow down.

He looked out, past the priory close, over Kingsbridge, to the fields beyond, and there he saw something that puzzled him. There was a cloud of dust on the road leading to Kingsbridge, about half a mile away. After a moment he realized that he was looking at a large troop of men on horseback, approaching the town at a smart trot. He peered into the distance, trying to figure out who they were. At first he thought it must be a very wealthy merchant, or a group of merchants, with a large entourage, but there were too many of them, and somehow they did not look like commercial people. He tried to put his finger on what it was about them that made him think they were something other than merchants. As they came closer he saw that some of them were riding war-horses, most had helmets, and they were armed to the teeth.