Lewys paused to take a gulp of wine before continuing. ‘Lord Jasper headed west for the hills but riding was not for me, I do not ride well, as you know, I decided to rely on disguise for my protection. I had my bard’s scrip and my tunic and cloak hidden in a cart and I lay in a ditch for a few hours before seeking shelter with a fellow poet at Hay, though not for long as it put him in danger with Yorkists swarming everywhere, seeking the blood of our fleeing soldiers, boasting what they would do to Lord Jasper when they caught him – but I am sure they will not, never fear. At nightfall I made my escape from the town and headed across the mountains. It has only taken me six days to get here.’

Six days was scarcely possible. He could hardly have rested. I jumped to my feet, calling for a servant and ordering food and ale immediately. I was shamefaced. ‘What can I have been thinking?’ I said. ‘Forgive me. I am so shocked by your news and worried for Lord Jasper. And Owen? Poor gallant Owen; you say he was killed. May God have mercy on his soul.’ I made the sign of the cross and sat down again. ‘How? Was it in the rout?’

He shook his head. ‘I am confused and horrified by his death. Passing through Brecon, near the castle garrison there, I witnessed the arrival of a Lancastrian courier and I eavesdropped as he told people the news that Owen Tudor had been executed in Hereford Market Place.’

‘Executed!’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘But he was a knight banneret. As a prisoner he was worth a good ransom …’

Lewys shrugged. ‘We will have to wait to find the truth. Revenge for York’s death, I imagine, who knows.’

‘Poor Myfanwy! Did you glean any news of her?’

The bard opened his scrip-bag and pulled out a grubby scrap of paper covered with scratched and spattered writing. ‘I think I did,’ he said, strangely. ‘I transcribed a story the courier told.’ Then he read what he had written, deciphering his own scrawled words with deliberation.

‘Owen Tudur’s head was stuck on the market cross for the crowd to mock. But when a madwoman climbed up to take it down they all fell silent. She wept and crooned as she wiped the blood from the face and kissed the lips of the dead man and placed his head on the steps of the cross. Then she set it about with lighted candles and began to sing. People who had muttered that she should be arrested became quiet because her voice rang out clear and beautiful and the song was a psalm. A breeze stirred the candle-flames and moved through the silver hair on the severed head so that it seemed to float above the steps.’