I SPENT THE SEEMINGLY interminable period of Margaret’s labour kneeling before the altar in the Pembroke chapel. In the freezing small hours of the morning I begged God to spare Margaret’s life, even over and above that of her child and I realized with an appalling sense of guilt that my motives were as selfish as Edmund’s ever were. I wanted her to live because if she died it would be my fault for letting Edmund get his own way as he had done all his life. I should have fought harder for her, persuaded King Henry that I, not Edmund, should marry her because I would care for her wellbeing so much more than he. I felt I had spinelessly abandoned her and now, if she lived, I would be forced to abandon her again because by marrying Edmund, whether the babe lived or not, she had become my sister and I was forbidden by the laws of consanguinity to marry her, as the mother of my brother’s child.

On the third day of Margaret’s ordeal Jane came at dawn – she found me prostrate before the Holy Rood, my face wet with tears. She knelt and touched my shoulder. ‘Is she dead?’ I asked, my voice a croak.

‘No, my lord, but she may be close to death. She has lost much blood and is insensible, but the child is a healthy boy.’

I hauled myself up onto one knee, my head swimming. ‘Close to death you say. How close?’

Jane looked as pale as death herself and shook her head. ‘I do not know. There is also the ever-present threat of fever. Your prayers will be needed more than ever.’

‘Oh dear God Almighty, save her!’ I cried, turning back to the altar and making the sign of the cross. ‘What does the midwife say of her condition?’

‘She says Lady Margaret is lucky the baby is small, though he is strong. Nevertheless he should be baptized as soon as possible.’

I ran my hand over my face, trying to remove all sign of my tears. ‘Yes. I will alert the priest and then we will bring him here.’

Jane brought the baby out of the lying-in chamber with a lace-trimmed chemise over his swaddling and a beautifully embroidered coif tied over his head so that all I could see of his features were crumpled red cheeks, a small, straight mouth and tightly-closed, rather puffy eyes. Knowing that his mother lay at death’s door seemed to rob me of all feeling for the child. He was my nephew but I could summon no sense of kinship.

Then the midwife carried him wrapped in a thick woollen shawl through a crowd of curious servants and soldiers who greeted the newborn with blessings and applause as we walked past them to the Inner Gate and the castle chapel. At the font I undertook the godfather role and passed the baby to the priest.