I should have guessed there was more to Exeter’s wish to retreat than met the eye. He and his entourage were all mounted, whereas the Flemish mercenaries were on foot and when Herbert sent his cavalry out to harry our rear, the Flemish infantry broke ranks and began to run to escape the thundering hooves. It was some time before word of the chaos behind us reached the van and my first instinct was to gallop to the rear-guard’s aid but Exeter was having none of it, manoeuvring his horse to block my way. ‘If you do not get to Harlech first, Jasper, they will not open the gates and the Yorkist army will be all over ours. We have to ride on, that is an order!’

This was another bitter choice for me. I prayed that one day I might fight alongside truly honourable commanders, who would have only the welfare of their men and victory over York at the forefront of their minds.

The weather deteriorated fast as we galloped towards Harlech and our first sight of the castle was shrouded in a sea wrack, its pale stone towers seeming to float on a swirling white cushion, while below it Tremadog Bay had become an invisible roaring fiend. Through wind-hurled spray from the waves crashing on the rocks below we climbed to the gatehouse entrance, shouting for admittance, but our voices were no match for the pounding surf and I think it was luck that a head appeared over the battlements above us and I was recognized.

Exeter muttered darkly as we stood before the first in a succession of drawbridges and portcullises. Having been admitted across two lowered bridges, at the first gatehouse portcullis we were asked to dismount and inspected at close quarters through the grille; arrows were trained on us through slits in the walls on either side and the guard growled, ‘Names and business, if you please.’

Exeter was on the verge of exploding. ‘Jesu, man, you know the Earl of Pembroke and I am the Duke of Exeter. Now get this gridiron lifted and let us escape this accursed wind.’

I had endured this tight security many times and approved its thoroughness. The garrison commander was a man I knew well and admired. Dafydd ab Einion was a stern and stolid Welshman whose loyalty to the Lancastrian cause was well ingrained. He knew every man of fighting age in West Wales and constantly rotated his force from families selected for their trustworthiness. Exeter might try but he would not defeat the constable’s rules of defence with bluster. There was a predictably fiery encounter with the garrison commander himself before, eventually, the second portcullis was lifted, followed by a third and then at last we were permitted to emerge into the fading daylight of the inner ward.