Written this day, the twenty-first of January 1461, the Feast Day of St Agnes the Martyr.

Of course I hastily penned all I knew, which was worryingly little, assured her of Harri’s health and promised I would write again as soon as I received any news myself. Although somewhat resentful of the dictatorial tone of her letter, I understood her anxiety for her son and totally shared the agony of not knowing whether Jasper was alive or dead.

Pembroke had been eerily quiet in the days since Jasper and Owen had led their men away to war with Myfanwy among the camp followers, and if it had not been for the children needing my attention, I believe I might have spent my time on my knees in the chapel, praying for divine intervention on Jasper’s behalf. He had not said so but I knew he had been extremely nervous setting out on his first battle command. Although he was the king’s brother and recognized as the most powerful nobleman in Wales, he had little experience in the art and conduct of war and while there was no doubting his ability to wield a sword, his ability as a commander was untested.

It was Lewys Glyn Cothi who brought the first report. He had marched out with the army, wearing one of Jasper’s old brigandines and equipped with pike and poniard. When a page came to the nursery to say that Lewys was waiting to see me my heart began to thud. ‘Is he alone?’ I asked the messenger, beckoning one of my assistants to take over the task of supervising the older children’s evening meal.

‘He walked in with a few companions,’ the boy replied. ‘But only he awaits you in the hall. He looks very tired.’

That was no exaggeration. I had once encountered the bard soaked and shivering after walking from Carmarthen to Pembroke in a winter storm but I had never seen his shoulders so slumped or his face so grey as it was when I found him crouched over the hall fire.

‘Lewys, I pray you do not tell me Jasper is dead!’

The words sprang from my mouth without preamble and he straightened instantly. ‘No, no, Mistress Jane, not Jasper – but Owen. Owen is dead, God take his soul.’

I felt myself swaying and he rushed forward to steady me and steer me to a chair. I shook my head to clear it and made the sign of the cross, uncertain whether it was in gratitude for Jasper’s life or prayer for his father’s death. ‘God have mercy – Owen! Was he killed in battle? How did he die? And where is Myfanwy?’

Lewys stepped over to the buffet, poured two cups of wine from a jug, then pulled another chair close to mine. ‘Here, drink this. I will tell you everything in the right order.’