‘Who names this child?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ I answered, realizing that I had no idea what name to give him.

Then all at once it came to me, perhaps as a way to induce in myself some sense of family connection, and as I made the declaration the list of Welsh patronyms ran fluently off my tongue. ‘His name is Owen – Owen ab Edmund ap Maredudd ap Tudur.’

* * *

‘A fine name for a Son of Prophecy!’ declared Lewys Glyn Cothi in his lilting Welsh-accented English. The poet had appeared at the castle gate at noon as if he knew by magic that the expected child had been born. His intuition had also brought him on foot through a fall of snow from Haverford in time to join me at dinner. ‘This young Owen is descended from Cadwalladr and the great Princes of Wales, just as you are yourself, Lord Jasper. The prophecy says that one such called Owen will raise the red dragon standard and become our saviour. We call him Y Mab Daragon!’

‘That is bardic nonsense!’ I said, irritable from lack of sleep. ‘As far as I am concerned he is named for his grandfather.’

‘It does not matter if his name is Thomas, Dafydd or Harri,’ the poet persisted. ‘It is his lineage that matters and this little Owen has it.’

‘I still think his mother should have been consulted about the name, my lord,’ Jane said. I had invited her to join us although she was about as interested in her food as I was in mine.

‘His mother is at death’s door,’ I snapped. ‘Otherwise of course she could have named him herself.’

‘I am sorry I did not ask her for a name before she fell into a faint,’ Jane snapped back. ‘She was crying out to Saint Margaret to save her from the pain and suddenly she was unconscious.’

‘You have all suffered a momentous birth,’ said Lewys, pausing in his rapid consumption of a bowl of fish stew. He went on soothingly, ‘Some sleep will bring you peace, and you will recover, just as the babe’s mother will.’

As the eccentric bard had foretold, by the following day I felt considerably better, and more so when Alice came to say that her mistress was awake and had asked for me. I had no place in the lying-in chamber, I knew that, but I blundered in there like a charging bull, before any protective female could deny me entry. Margaret was no longer awake and the sleeping face that confronted me from the pillows was terrifyingly pale but the cowering nurse told me this was a good sign. ‘It means there is no fever,’ she said in a whisper. ‘My lady is very weak from loss of blood but if the fever stays at bay she will slowly recover her strength.’