‘Davy of course.’ Myfanwy curled her legs underneath her in a way that would have horrified Lady Margaret. ‘I hope he resembles his father and is not like me.’

‘Yes he is very like his father and not at all like you,’ I said frankly, thinking that her dark, gypsy looks would not suit Davy’s sunny character. ‘He is strong and bright and resourceful; by rights he should be trained for knighthood, for he has all the necessary attributes, but the way things are I doubt if the opportunity will be afforded him.’

‘But that is exactly why I am here! For although you have this comfortable house and live in a prosperous town it is obvious to me that you do not have much money.’

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, the way it always did when I was cross or distressed. She laughed and reached out to take my hand. I took it as a placatory gesture and let mine lie in hers. She had changed. Her rustling silk skirts and fashionable beaver hat indicated that she was no longer the wild, carefree child-of-the-forest she had been when she came with Owen to Pembroke.

At this moment Eithne arrived with a tray loaded with a jug, two mugs and a platter of sweetmeats. ‘I have sent Huw off to fetch Davy. Shall I bring him in when they get here, Mistress Hywel?’

‘No, Eithne, let him wait until I come and get him.’

‘Mistress Hywel?’ Myfanwy repeated when Eithne had gone. ‘I do not remember ever hearing that name before. It always used to be Mistress Jane, did it not?’

I shrugged. ‘I needed to give the children some status in the town. I decided to be a widow instead of a paramour. May I ask what you are?’

It was her turn to blush. ‘Oh I am just Myfanwy. But I am married again now.’

‘To a rich man by the look of you.’

She twisted the eye-catching sapphire ring she wore. ‘I married the Denbigh apothecary who took me in when I escaped my first husband’s murdering son. His wife died.’

‘Before or after you married him?’

Her throaty laugh rippled out, a familiar sound from the old days. ‘I had forgotten your wry sense of humour! He is the perfect husband – kind, generous and rich. Apothecaries are much in demand. But he is no Owen Tudor.’

We were still holding hands and I nodded ruefully, giving hers a squeeze. ‘The Tudors are a hard act to follow. Was it you who lit candles around Owen’s head in the Hereford Market Place, Myfanwy?’

Her eyes instantly filled with tears and she looked away, swallowing hard. Eventually, in a voice hoarse with grief, she asked, ‘How could they do that to him? He was so beautiful.’

‘You were lucky they did not arrest you.’