This took her mind off her twinges for a few minutes while we wandered about the big empty room, gazing upwards, scanning the various images. She reeled the devices off as we went. ‘There in the centre are the royal arms, the leopards and lilies, and around them King Henry’s antelope, Queen Marguerite’s swan and the Prince of Wales’s three ostrich feathers. And then there is the red rose of Lancaster and the fleur de lys of France – and are those not Jasper’s golden martlets? I do not recognize that one with the three helmets; perhaps it is his father’s device but does Owen Tudor have a coat of arms? Ah, there is the Beaufort portcullis and next to it – oh! – is the flowering mount of Richmond.’ This last brought tears to her eyes and she turned to me, her face crumpling. ‘I wonder if my dear lord knows that his child is coming? I wish he were here to see his son born!’

Although I made soothing noises I regretted that the sight of the Richmond device had defeated my attempt at distraction. It also troubled me that Margaret was so fixed on the child being a boy but considered that now was not the time to admit any doubt about the gender. Another twinge caused her tears to spill more freely and I abandoned any further attempt to extend the walk. Once she was settled back in her bed I sent a message to Jasper that the labour had begun, the midwife should be summoned and the wet nurse warned.

For many hours there was little or no progress. I had only Bethan’s births to compare it with but Mallt assured me that all was well. ‘Young girls’ bodies have to adjust to the process of opening up,’ she said. ‘Muscles must stretch that have never stretched before and it will hurt.’

Margaret heard this. ‘How much will it hurt?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I am getting pains but they are not as bad as when I sprained my wrist. Will it hurt as much as that?’

Mallt smiled at her kindly. ‘It is a different sort of hurt, my lady. You must pray to your patron saint to help you bear it. You are fortunate to be called Margaret for it is she who aids all women in childbirth and particularly those who bear her name. Very soon I will rub your belly and thighs with my special oil, which smells of roses and it will ease the pain.’

‘I like the scent of roses. I must be strong so that my son is strong,’ said Margaret, becoming breathless as another spasm started.

‘We are certain that it will be a boy then, are we?’ Mallt sounded sceptical. ‘Have you dangled a gold ring over your belly? And did it swing north-south for a boy?’