SWEET JANE’S BONNY FEATURES were to become a recurring image in my mind throughout the year that followed, particularly those long, sweeping eyelashes shading her deep brown-velvet eyes. Certain memories made particularly vivid returns. In blessedly balmy weather we had shared the rustic delights of shepherding Hywel’s flock of sheep up to the high pastures and the picture of Jane, in a straw hat and long boots, with her skirts tucked up and a shepherd’s crook in her hand, made frequent visitations in my quieter moments. Later, on our return to Tŷ Cerrig, I had witnessed her handling the birth of Bethan’s baby, when she chased all the men out of the house and set about supervising the midwife, cheering the mother and reassuring the grandmother, all with seemingly unruffled efficiency. And meanwhile I managed to pick up a few words of Welsh, at least enough to identify a mab from a merch, which is to say a boy from a girl. I had little experience of females of any age but the sight of this smiling fourteen-year-old merch emerging from the front door of the farmhouse to present her father with his newborn daughter remained with me for months, inspiring comparison with church images of the Madonna and Child.

Walking our horses to the field one day Edmund had been scornful of my friendship with Jane, pointing out to me that a relationship with a Welsh farm-girl, especially one whose grandfather had been outlawed for rebelling against the crown, would not be one to mention at court. ‘Enjoy her company while we are here, Jas, bed her if you will, not that beds seem to abound in this part of the world, but for pity’s sake keep silent on the subject of Jane when we return to Westminster.’

I worried about Edmund’s attitude towards females. He did not seem to have absorbed any of the rules of chivalry drummed into us during the lessons on Arthurian legend, which the king had insisted should be part of our preparation for knighthood and which laid particular stress on respect for women. Edmund was always careful to impress our tutors with his grasp of Latin verse and philosophical texts but his moral code was that of the alehouse.

I angrily rejected his implication that I had lecherous designs on Jane. ‘The only bedding I have done here is strawing down the horses, brother – and for pity’s sake will you please stop calling me Jas!’

‘Temper, temper!’ he cried. ‘What does plain Jane call you then? Rust-head?’

‘No, but I will tell you what she calls you. Pretty boy! You frightened the sheep in your bright red doublet and yellow hose – you should have left them in London.’

‘And you should leave those mud-coloured rags of yours in Wales,’ he retaliated. ‘Along with your Welsh words and your bumpkin shepherdess – Jas!’ He had to dodge under his horse’s neck to avoid my bunched fist.