Jane had only kissed me once – other than a kiss in greeting as friends do – but that had been enough to tell me that she was nothing like those eager court fillies with ulterior motives. At first I had considered my response to her kiss no more than an automatic reaction, a stirring of the blood, but then what had she said to me? ‘I have loved you since you first came to Tŷ Cerrig.’ And what had I said in reply? I could not remember my exact words but I recalled their gist with a sense of regret that churned inside me. I had flatly rejected her. Gabbled something about honour and keeping the king’s faith and she had gone quiet; had been quiet ever since. Yet she was still there in my life, still caring for little Harri, as if nothing had happened. I wondered, did she still love me or did she see me as the fool I was beginning to regard myself?

We reached Pembroke at dusk. Long shadows stretched out from the lofty castle walls to meet us as we crossed the bridge over the river and rode up the hill to the barbican. There were guards at the gate and on the battlements but the Outer Ward was quiet, the rest of the garrison and household no doubt in the Great Hall, filling their bellies. Maredudd drew rein outside the entrance to the new mansion.

‘Shall I take your horse, my lord?’ he asked, breaking into my thoughts. ‘No doubt you will be wanting to visit your nephew before bedtime.’

I had forgotten that sunset signalled the end of the day for an infant such as Harri. ‘Yes, thank you, Maredudd. And tell the steward I will take supper here, not in the hall. You are welcome to join me if you will.’

Maredudd grinned as he took my courser’s rein. ‘Thank you, my lord. I will see that the kitchen sends enough food. I expect you are as hungry as I am.’

Actually, my appetite seemed to have vanished as I climbed the mansion steps for the first time since Margaret’s departure; I pictured the domestic scene awaiting me, little Harri playing with his toys on the hearth, Jane sitting nearby, her sewing on her lap, and my eager anticipation mounted with me. I entered the solar to find the scene confronting me not dissimilar to my fantasy, except that while Harri was playing on the hearthrug, Jane was sitting at a table and she was not alone. Seated beside her, their heads close together over a manuscript, was the poet Lewys Glyn Cothi and something about the intimacy of their position rang alarm bells in my head.