I do not know how I knew it was my mother but the certainty only grew. Mette had told me that a famous Flemish artist had been brought to Paris to paint it when my mother was sixteen years old, a few years after the fifth King Henry’s magnificent victory over the French on the field of Agincourt. Her father, King Charles the Sixth of France, had been suffering one of his terrible episodes of madness and his queen, Isabeau of Bavaria, had assumed the regency with the Duke of Burgundy. Protracted peace negotiations were stalling and the Princess Catherine was being offered as a bride to try and seal the treaty. The portrait was painted to show the English king her outstanding beauty.

She was looking straight out of the painting, as if challenging the viewer to deny the perfection of her countenance. A lump formed in my throat as her two enormous sapphire eyes seemed to instantly claim me, so that I had to make a conscious effort to tear my gaze from them in order to study her other features. Finely arched brows were set above remarkable high cheekbones, the nose was nobly straight and the mouth curved and red as the rubies in her gold coronet, her neck pale, smooth and long like a marble column, set off by a gem-studded collar. She wore a purple velvet mantle trimmed with the tails of winter ermine, over a lavishly embroidered golden gown and yet this glorious royal apparel could not outshine the radiance of its wearer. Never can a princess have been a more tempting prize to a conquering king.

‘She looks like you.’ Harri’s comment took me by surprise. We had both been silent for several minutes.

‘Do you really think so?’ I was absurdly pleased by his observation. ‘But without the beard,’ I joked.

Harri laughed, or more accurately, giggled. ‘Obviously, Uncle Jasper.’

‘It was her idea to call me Jasper,’ I remarked. More information relayed by Mette was surfacing, inspired by the picture to which my eyes could not help returning. ‘She had a red jasper ring and I was born with bright red hair. Much brighter than it is now.’

‘Does jasper have a meaning? Most gems do I am told.’

I turned to look at him again. ‘This one was a bloodstone. They say it is the gem of noble sacrifice and brings the bearer passion and courage.’

‘Then it suits you,’ my nephew said. ‘What could be more noble than to have brought your king back to his rightful throne?’

‘But I think I have more to prove, Harri, before she is shown to be right. I do not feel my life is over. There is much to do yet.’

He looked a little sheepish. ‘I did not mean to make you feel old, Uncle, and I hope I will see you do it.’