Not that I had any right to crow. My own defeat at the hands of young Edward of York rankled bitterly, mainly because I should have known better than to trust the craven Wiltshire and cursed my failure of judgement for relying on him to take any form of command. From Gwynedd I sent word of our safety to Pembroke, and of my intention to make a tour of the castles I still controlled in North Wales, to check their defences and reinforce their garrisons from my retinue if necessary. But before tackling this task we made a detour through Abermaw and trotted up the road from the seashore to call in at Tŷ Cerrig.

Instead of the usual winter bustle around the farmyard there was an unnatural silence, a complete and uncanny absence of activity. As we passed through the gate I noticed with alarm that a sinister laurel wreath hung over the farmhouse door, an indication that someone had died. Maredudd’s urgent hammering on the door brought his brother Dai to meet us. He was now a grown man with a full beard, wearing a black jacket over his working tunic and an expression that was far from welcoming.

‘If you have come here to hide from the Yorkists you have come to the wrong house,’ he growled, fixing his eyes on Maredudd. ‘We are in mourning here for our father, killed by your men at the battle in the March.’

‘Hywel is dead? Fighting with the Yorkists?’ I made the sign of the cross, astonished by the circumstances of this tragedy.

Maredudd flung the reins of his horse at one of the other mounted men. His face was suffused with anger. ‘Father died in support of the Yorkists you say? Even though he has been taking money from Lord Jasper for five years? I cannot believe it. When did he lose his mind?’

Dai’s fists clenched, as if he was on the verge of using them. ‘As far as I am concerned he was in perfectly sound mind. If you come here expecting to receive the fatted calf it is you who are mad, because there is nothing here for you.’

I swung down from the saddle and stepped between the two brothers, worried that fists might begin to fly. ‘Where is Hywel’s body, Dai? Every son has a right to pay his respects to his father. Have you brought him home from the battlefield?’ I kept my voice quiet and measured, hoping to prevent violence exploding.

‘Of course we brought him home,’ the young man snarled. ‘His guts were spilling out and we buried him quickly in the churchyard on the shore. You can go down there if you want to spit on his grave, Lord Jasper.’ His stress on the title spoke eloquently, along with the sneer in his voice. ‘You wasted your guilt-gold here.’