I shrugged. ‘If that is what our father said I am not surprised, but it is not what I would say.’ Maredudd paused in his ablutions, one eyebrow raised in query. I continued, ‘I asked how you felt with your hands between Jasper’s while you made your oath of allegiance. Did you feel as if you were betraying your family?’

‘No, I did not because I regard him as family. His father and mine are of the same blood and becoming a squire in Jasper’s retinue is a means of improving my status. I do not want to remain a yeoman farmer all my life, as our father obviously does.’

At this I detected a hint of scorn in his voice and I could not let it go unchallenged. ‘I think he regards himself as a gentleman farmer and sees a wider picture. As a boy he heard the stories of Glyn Dŵr’s rebellion and his own father’s struggle to rebuild his life and he blames the Lancastrian kings. Jasper is brother to a Lancastrian king.’

‘Half brother,’ Maredudd corrected me. ‘And the other half is Welsh and our blood relative. He straddles the two nations and so can I. Perhaps Lord Jasper is Y Mab Daragon as some bards sing. Perhaps he truly is the Son of Prophecy come to restore the pride of the Welsh nation. People are beginning to think so.’

I had always seen something special in Jasper Tudor but it was not that. My reasons for favouring him were more personal, more heartfelt than lodged in legend, but I was not going to reveal my heart to my brother, who would only mock me for it. ‘Who are these people?’ I asked. ‘Ruffians and hotheads from the Abermaw taverns?’

Maredudd shook his hands and drops of water flew in all directions, some of it sprinkling my face and cap. ‘There is a poet,’ he said defensively, grabbing a dry towel he had draped over the dairy door. ‘His name is Lewys Glyn Cothi and he is a farmer’s son like me but he has the bard’s gift of song. He is making a name for himself among the local gentry and I have let it be known that he would be welcome here.’

‘Really?’ Bards travelled the country singing and reciting legend, verse and polemic of varying literary, musical and political merit. We had never received a visit from one, Hywel being uninterested in such ‘riff-raff’ as he called them. ‘When will he come, do you know?’