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I touched the cloth, admiring its shimmer as the slight movement stirred it into life; it was soft and sinuous under my fingers. I imagined the deft fingers that had wound the fine gold wire around the warp fibres with infinite skill and patience. Edmund was right; wearing it would make anyone feel illustrious. Cloth of gold! Just how had Edmund come up with the huge price it commanded?
Edmund drew himself up to his six-foot height. ‘The daughter of a queen may wear what she likes. They would not dare to fine her.’
Exasperated, I flicked the fabric so that it rippled, like a sudden flurry on a calm lake. ‘Your head is in the clouds, brother. Come back to earth. Our sister lives in Tun Lane, London. Nobody knows what we know. In her world she is not Margaret, just Meg, and she is about to marry the man of her choice who is not a prince but a lawyer. She will be a wife and, God willing, a mother. She is happy, with a warm home and enough money for her needs. Whatever you dream for your own future, do not wish it on her.’
Irritably Edmund twitched the length of fabric into his arms, gathering it in like a shield against reality. ‘I know what she is – what she has chosen to remain – but she is still the daughter of a queen, the granddaughter of a king, and I will give her the honour of royal raiment, even if she never wears it.’
I shrugged. ‘So be it but you have wasted your money. And do not dare to reveal her true birth by so much as a whisper at the wedding or you will win Mette’s enduring wrath – and mine too for that matter.’
My brother paused in his careful folding of the cloth-of-gold. ‘Mette – is she still alive then?’
Unlike me, Edmund no longer went to The House of the Vine in Tun Lane where our sister had lived since the death of our royal mother fourteen years ago. In recent years he had acquired what I considered an exaggerated sense of rank and the refuse-strewn back streets of London offended him.
‘Of course she is alive. You know she is. She always asks after you, as does our sister.’ Mette was Meg’s foster mother, the faithful servant into whose care our own mother had entrusted her little daughter on her deathbed, hoping she might enjoy the happy childhood she herself had not known. Our mother was one of many children of the sixth King Charles of France and the ravages of the king’s madness had had consequences for them all in the fierce struggle for power that resulted. Now Meg was to marry her foster brother William, who had recently qualified as a lawyer at the Middle Temple. A spring wedding at St Mildred’s church.
‘And what do you tell them?’ Edmund asked as he laid the cloth on top of his chest, which stood next to mine against the wall in our chamber in one of the many towers of Westminster Palace.
‘I tell them you are well. That is all.’
Edmund’s chest was filled with apparel of every kind. I had wondered before how he managed to afford such finery since he received the same royal pension as I did. I presumed he must be winning at dice or frequenting the moneylenders of Lombard Street, like many of our fellow squires. I hated debt and could do without fashionable clothes, preferring to buy harness and armour if I had any spare funds but I did quite envy the dashing figure Edmund cut about the court.
‘You are coming to the wedding, are you not?’ I added. My query contained a note of anxiety for Edmund could be unreliable.
‘Of course I am coming. I would not miss a feast.’ A smile revealing perfect teeth lit his dark features – another advantage he enjoyed, my own smile being marred by a chipped front tooth, the result of an unhappy collision in a joust. ‘What are you giving her?’
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. A tendency to blush was one of the drawbacks of having red hair and a fresh complexion. There was no reason to feel ashamed of my gift, yet I knew Edmund would think it niggardly. ‘A hogshead of ale.’
‘Ale?’ He was incredulous. ‘You are giving them ale?’
‘Yes, the traditional Bride Ale, strongly brewed and flavoured with herbs and honey, for all the guests to drink their health.’
Edmund grimaced and flicked back his glossy hair. ‘Oh well, I daresay there will be wine as well. After all, their name is Vintner. There are plenty of wine merchants in the family.’
* * *
Meg and William Vintner were married at St Mildred’s church in the London ward known as the Vintry, the same church that had witnessed the nuptials of his parents more than twenty years before. As the bride and groom stood in the porch making their vows, I studied the face of the woman who had brought them both up. Mistress Guillaumette Vintner, known to close friends and family as Mette, was now a matron of sixty-three years, stout and wrinkled in her wimple and veil to which, on formal occasions such as this, she added a widow’s barbe to mark her lone status since the death of her husband Geoffrey several years before. They had enjoyed seventeen happy years of marriage before he had succumbed to congestion of the lungs and once or twice I saw her gaze wander wistfully off towards the churchyard where he lay buried. The bridegroom, their only son William, had been what she called their ‘autumn leaf’, the last fruit of their fertility before the sap began its winter retreat, and no one could have been more delighted than Mette when the relationship between William and Meg changed from the affection of siblings to the attraction of adults. Probably Geoffrey had foreseen their future together too before he died. Somehow it seemed inevitable. Meg had been Queen Catherine’s secret bequest to the woman who had been her wet nurse as a babe and whom she had come to regard as a true mother.
Owen Tudor stood beside Mette. Father to Edmund, Meg and me and still handsome, with his silver hair and ruddy complexion, he had travelled from the Welsh March for the occasion. I knew he still practised regularly with sword and bow, which kept his physique that of a man ten years younger than the fifty he had lived and I admired him for it. Nor did he appear to have lost any of his ability to charm the ladies; more than once he caused Mette to blush and smile at his whispered comments as the short ceremony progressed. He also aimed a sly wink at Edmund and me, which I returned but which made Edmund hiss through his teeth. I think my brother would rather it had been our mother, Queen Catherine, who survived to attend the wedding, instead of the Welsh squire she had married in secret and to whom she had borne four children. Edmund was the eldest. Our younger brother Owen, the child born shortly before our mother passed away, was now a monk at Westminster Abbey and had taken another name.
Edmund’s wedding gift was wrapped in plain linen and draped over his shoulder. He was clad in a bright green damask doublet lined with scarlet, the sleeves dagged and his hose parti-coloured, one leg white and one yellow. The sight had attracted startled glances as we walked from the inn to the church.
‘Why do they stare like that?’ he had grumbled. ‘Have they never seen dagged sleeves?’
‘It might be your legs rather than your arms,’ I responded. ‘A short doublet and hosen like that are rarely seen in London streets.’
‘And no wonder,’ he declared, stepping gingerly over small piles of animal droppings and rotting vegetables. ‘I thank Saint Crispin that I thought to wear bottins rather than shoes.’
After the wedding Mass we walked in procession to Tun Lane, behind a group of beribboned minstrels who rivalled Edmund for colourful apparel and played merry tunes to set the mood. A spectacular array of wafers and pastries was laid out in the panelled hall at the House of the Vine and we were promised a feast of roasted meats when the banquet began. As I kissed the bride and groom and wished them well I noticed that my hogshead of Bride Ale stood in pride of place below the salt, ready for folk to fill their jugs at will. Meg thanked me warmly for it and while other guests gathered around the barrel Mette took me off to sit with her by the hearth. People were taking their places at the cloth-draped boards decked with spring garlands and their flowery scent vied with the smell of yeast and herbs as the ale flowed. Casting a scathing glance at the hogshead, Edmund wandered off to find some wine to drink.
‘That was a very thoughtful gift, Jasper,’ Mette said, ‘just what every wedding needs to get the conversation flowing. It is so good to see you – and Edmund too of course, although I barely recognized him. I must say his taste in clothes has taken an exotic turn!’
I laughed at that. ‘Still not mincing your words then, Mette? Of course at court Edmund’s style is hardly remarkable. It is mine which stands out as being rather bland.’
The old lady perused my best blue doublet with its grey coney trimming. ‘You both look as you choose,’ she commented tactfully. ‘And I hear the king favours sober dress. Are you still happy at court? Not swamped by the ceremony or daunted by the protocol?’
‘No, we have our duties and the company is fair. Plenty of other squires to spar with and the food is good.’ I grinned at her. ‘Better than at the abbey!’
After our mother’s death, our parents’ marriage became known and our father had been imprisoned for contravening the Marriage Act. Edmund and I had found refuge with the nuns at Barking Abbey on the Thames outside London, living among a group of young royal wards being educated there. Only when our half-brother, King Henry, reached his majority was our father released and we were brought into Henry’s own household, where tutors and instructors were engaged to prepare us for knighthood, a process which was now approaching its conclusion. It had been a change of lifestyle much appreciated by both of us.
Mette’s rheumy eyes crinkled. ‘Ha! I can imagine. And damsels? Does the queen keep a charm of goldfinches in her solar to delight the young men at court?’
‘She does, but none outshines her. It must be owned that Queen Marguerite is dramatically beautiful. They say that her dark eyes and skin are inherited from her Spanish grandmother.’
Mette sniffed and leaned forward to speak in a confidential whisper. ‘And that does not endear her to the English, especially as she has not yet produced an heir to the throne. As your mother knew only too well, in a queen beauty is no substitute for fertility. Besides Queen Marguerite is actually French, whom the English dislike even more than the Spanish, or the Welsh for that matter.’
‘Which is the very reason I am careful to avoid revealing my doubly unpopular origins.’ I shot her a wry look. ‘You are French, Mette. Have you found the English much prejudiced against you?’
Her smile was reassuring and rather nostalgic. ‘No, but I live very quietly now. Your lady mother did though – very much so; but then if she had not she would never have married Owen Tudor and retired into obscurity – and you would not have been born.’
‘Did I hear my name? Are you gossiping about me, Madame Mette?’ My father had approached the hearth and with his usual gallantry removed his rakishly feathered hat, bowed over Mette’s hand and kissed it.
She responded with a broad smile and a raised eyebrow. ‘From what I hear you do not need me to spread gossip about you, Master Tudor.’
My father looked affronted. ‘Now what are they saying in the city? None of it will be true of course.’
I pricked up my ears. Unless invited to attend the king, our father wisely avoided the royal palace these days, but when he was in London I often met him in one of the taverns clustered around Westminster Hall, where the courts of justice sat. Any rumour Mette had picked up would have come through her lawyer son William.
She gave Owen a stern look. ‘They say you are making the most of your new appointment as King’s Forester in North Wales; working your way through the poor widows of Denbighshire.’
Owen gave a loud hoot of laughter and his deep brown eyes, so like my brother Edmund’s, danced with delight. ‘I told you there would be little truth in what you heard. Is it likely that I would take up with any poor widow, Mette? I may have dallied with one or two rich ones – nothing more I assure you.’ With a polite display of reluctance he released her hand. ‘But you have no refreshment I see. At the risk of heaping more fuel on the flames of rumour, let me play your cupbearer and bring you a draught of the Bride Ale.’
Mette accepted his offer with alacrity and watched him cross the floor on his quest. Turning back to me she murmured confidentially, ‘After all, why should he not seek consolation where he can find it, Jasper? He is still a handsome man – but there is no woman alive that could ever fill the space in his heart left by your beautiful mother, so sadly taken from us, we all know that.’ As she spoke I spied a nostalgic tear escape her eye. She went on, ‘I see her face every time I look at Meg. I cannot think why the world does not recognize the truth of her birth. And yet I thank God it does not.’
I cast a glance at the bride and groom standing in the centre of the room, pledging their love in a shared cup. At twenty-one William Vintner was an affable and good-looking young man. Only a few weeks younger than Edmund, he was quick of wit and slow of ire, neither tall nor short with a sturdy build, curly brown hair and rosy, clean-shaven cheeks. He bore a strong resemblance to his genial father, a man I had greatly admired, but his beard did not yet sprout thick enough to warrant letting it grow as Geoffrey Vintner had. I was less than a year younger than William and in our infancy at Hadham Manor he, Edmund and I had been close playmates, but my brother seemed to have forgotten that. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Edmund leaning elegantly against the hangings, alone, sipping from a horn cup, his gaze sweeping the other guests with an unfathomable expression. He had yet to congratulate the young couple, or give them his gift.
Our sister was slim and fair with delicate features, deep blue eyes and a countenance of doll-like sweetness, which I knew concealed a strong will and a generous nature. If it were true that she closely resembled our mother then I cursed the weakness of my memory, which retained no clear image of Queen Catherine to compare her with. I had been six when she rode away from Hadham Manor, never to return. Only six years old when our lives turned upside down, and while I could remember every detail of the island in the River Ash where we three little boys had played at knights and outlaws, to my deep regret I had no recollection of the lovely face of our mother – the fifth King Henry’s widowed queen and Owen Tudor’s late and much lamented wife. I knew that somewhere in Windsor Castle there was a portrait of Catherine de Valois, painted when she was a princess of sixteen and sent to the conquering King Henry as a marriage-bait, but as yet I had not found it.
Mette was enjoying her ale, raising her cup to the bridal pair, when Edmund moved out from behind a knot of guests, ushering a servant who carried a joint-stool and spread it open to place it before the bride and groom in the centre of the hall. On it, with a ceremonial bow, my brother laid his wedding gift, still wrapped in its protective linen shroud. The room hushed expectantly as he stepped forward to kiss his sister, then, taking a proud stance beside the stool, he cleared his throat to speak. Although my stomach lurched with dread of what he might say, I thought what an impressive figure Edmund made despite the garish nature of his clothing, darkly handsome, with all the grace and sinew of a noble horseman.
‘Like all here, I have come to wish the bride and groom health, wealth and happiness in their life together. This gift is for the beautiful bride, so that she may array herself like a queen and show the world her true worth.’
With a deft movement he pulled off the linen wrapping and flung the exposed cloth-of-gold across his raised arm in a dramatic flourish. Beams of light falling through the open hall shutters reflected off its folds and illuminated the faces of the surrounding guests, who stood open-mouthed at the spectacle. Edmund’s expression was one of triumph as he anticipated Meg’s response.
She cast a troubled glance at her new husband, whose brow creased in concern at the threat of revelation contained both in the shimmering fabric and in Edmund’s words. Apart from the Vintner family, Owen, Edmund and I, no other guests in the room had any notion of Meg’s true birth and it was the family’s intention that it should remain that way. Edmund’s gift and his style of presentation had rendered the secret more fragile than ever.
After a pause Meg stepped forward and gathered the material off her brother’s arm, laying it carefully over the stool, from which it hung in liquid folds, pooling on the floor like molten metal. Her gauze veil, secured by a coronet of spring flowers over her fair, profusely curling mane of hair, frothed around her smiling face as she dropped Edmund a graceful curtsy.
‘Thank you, Edmund,’ she said, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. ‘It is a fabric of spectacular beauty – a vision of heaven in fact – and, with your permission, I shall donate it to the Queen of Heaven herself, to fashion a gown for the statue of the Virgin in St Mildred’s church, in gratitude for her blessing on our marriage today.’
Beside me I heard Mette release a long sigh, as if she had been holding her breath. Then her familiar chuckle cut through the tension, which had begun to pervade the room. ‘Saint Nicholas be praised! We have a bride with brains and beauty and will have a shrine to the Virgin to rival any royal benefice. For such a gift the Holy Mother will surely grant this marriage happiness and fertility.’ Applause rippled from the crowd as she turned away, rolling her eyes at me and adding under her breath, ‘That piece of cloth would have bought a new bed and all the hangings – but luckily I have given them that.’
Edmund strolled over to us, bending to place cool lips on Mette’s cheek. ‘Meg does you proud, Madame Mette. Your William is a very lucky man.’
‘They are a happy pair, Edmund,’ she responded emphatically. ‘Long may they remain so!’
2 (#ulink_c892a5a9-b356-554f-8c91-e7e667422add)
Jane (#ulink_c892a5a9-b356-554f-8c91-e7e667422add)
Tŷ Cerrig, Gwynedd, North Wales
THE SOUND OF THE watch-bell always caused a bustle in the house. It meant either trouble or visitors, sometimes both. The cheese-making would have to wait. I took off my apron and sent Mair the dairymaid to discover what all the clanging was about, while I sped out to the brewery to draw a jug of ale. Whoever was arriving, refreshment was bound to be required. By the time I had taken the ale to the hall and set out some cups Mair returned to tell me that three strangers on horseback were trotting up the road from the shore. Strangers were a rarity at Tŷ Cerrig.
‘What is it, Sian? What is happening?’ Face crumpled from sleep, my stepmother appeared through the heavy woollen curtain that divided the solar from the hall, although the word ‘mother’ seemed hardly appropriate for a girl who had seen only three more summers than me; that is to say, seventeen.
‘Strangers arriving,’ I said. ‘I was just going out to see.’
Her face fell. ‘Oh. Must I go and greet them?’
She was pregnant; very pregnant, her belly taut and round, only days from delivery and suffering from swollen ankles and shortness of breath. It would not be good for her to stand in the yard while men and horses milled about and dust flew.
‘No Bethan, you stay in here. Sit down and wait. Whoever it is will come inside eventually. Father will be there by now and I will go out. You can pour the ale.’
Visibly relieved, she waddled to the large wooden armchair that stood by the hearth. ‘Yes. I will do that. I will wait.’
Bethan was sweet but she was a simple soul. Her marriage to my father had taken us all by surprise the previous year, being only eight months after the sudden death of my mother, to whom he had been wed for nearly twenty years and who he had unquestionably loved and respected. But Bethan was an heiress, the only child of a neighbouring landholder. The match had been made and a contract drawn up with a view to securing both her future and ours. It was a sensible arrangement for she had known my father from childhood and trusted him and we all knew her well and understood her disability, brought about by a slow and difficult birth, which both she and her mother had only just survived.
I glanced around the hall to check that it was ready to receive guests. A peat fire smoked lazily in the hearth, beside it an iron cauldron seethed steadily, containing the evening pottage. With regret I calculated that I would have to wring the necks of a couple of chickens if guests were staying, unless they came bearing gifts.
Outside, I had to shade my eyes against the sun which still stood high in the May sky. The warning bell had brought my father Hywel and two of my brothers, Maredudd and Dai, from the sheep pens where they had been checking the month-old lambs before their spring release with the ewes onto the high moorland grazing behind the house. Sheep dogs were yapping at their heels but on curt orders from their masters they dropped to the ground, crouched and silent, as four horses clip-clopped under the farmyard gate-arch. Three of them were mounted, the fourth was a laden sumpter led by the foremost rider.
My father gave a shout of welcome and stepped forward to grab his boot. ‘Ah, glory be to Saint Dewi, it is you Owen Tudor! You are very well come to Tŷ Cerrig.’
The long-legged man who swung down from his horse immediately drew my father into a bear hug and slapped his back heartily. ‘It has been too long, Hywel, but at last I have brought my sons to meet their Welsh kin.’ He turned to the two young men who still sat their horses and switched to English. ‘Edmund, Jasper – get down and greet your cousin Hywel Fychan. You probably do not remember him but I expect he remembers you, eh Hywel?’
He was a good-looking man, this Owen, whose Welsh was fluent but tinged with a foreign lilt. However, the sons who obeyed his command to dismount were of a great deal more interest to me. At first sight they seemed of similar age but judging by the way the darker one took the lead as if by right, the redheaded son was the younger. Both tugged off their felt hats and made respectful bows and while the elder was receiving another of my father’s generous hugs, the gaze of the younger wandered in my direction. I felt an unexpected rush of pleasure as his face creased in a chip-toothed smile. I shyly returned the smile.
‘I remember two small boys who were often up to mischief,’ said my father when the greetings were done. ‘But now I see two young men who may create more.’
Owen laughed heartily. ‘You can say what you like, Hywel, because they will not understand you. I am ashamed to say they have no Welsh. I thought if I brought them here they might learn a few words and something about farming. Only one generation from the land and yet they know nothing!’
‘My boys will see to that,’ declared Hywel, beckoning them forward and switching to English so that Owen’s sons might understand. ‘This dark Welsh ram is Dai and the one with the light hair is Maredudd, my eldest son. He looks like his mother, do you not agree? Sadly she went to the angels at the start of last year.’
‘Agnes is dead?’ echoed Owen, making the sign of the cross. Clearly he had known my mother well for his expression became shadowed with regret. ‘May she rest in peace. I am very sorry to hear that.’
My father frowned fiercely. ‘Yes, it was a great loss. She gave me two daughters and three sons and then died from a fever; who knows why? I have a new wife who is about to give birth so we are praying all will be well with her. Come inside now and meet her. Her name is Bethan. Mind your head.’ He caught sight of me as he ushered his cousin towards the low door of the house. ‘Oh, this is my younger daughter Sian. The elder one is married and lives away now.’
I bobbed a curtsy as they passed me and Owen paused to smile and bow, repeating my name in his mellow voice before ducking under the lintel. The two younger men stopped and greeted me politely. The first followed immediately in his father’s footsteps but the one with the bright hair and the chip-toothed smile lingered before me. ‘Sorry, I did not catch your name. Mine is Jasper.’
Why did I have to blush? Having three brothers I was used to boys and these cousins were surely no different to them? ‘It is Sian,’ I said.
‘Shawn?’ he repeated, inaccurately. ‘Is that a Welsh name?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. My mother was French and called me Jeanne but everyone here calls me Sian.’
He still looked a little puzzled. ‘Oh I see. So that might be Jane in English? Will you forgive me if I call you Jane?’
I found myself telling him I would; yet even as I said it I knew it was not true. My name sounded harsh and plain in English – but then he endeared himself to me once more by saying, ‘My mother was French too.’
‘Yes, mine was your mother’s companion at one time. I am sure my father will explain it all.’
He nodded and paused to gaze around him. ‘It is very beautiful here. Believe it or not it is my first close-up sight of the sea and I find it quite breathtaking, so wild and empty!’ His grin was apologetic but he turned his face to the land and went on, ‘And I like the way the stone walls make patterns on the hillsides. We rode through the mountains yesterday and they were truly awe-inspiring. I have seen nothing like them in England.’
His enthusiasm for my homeland made me garrulous in return. ‘I am so glad you think that. I do not know how long you will stay but very soon we will be moving the sheep up into the hills. We walk them to the high pastures and sleep out under the stars. Perhaps you might join us?’
Jasper shrugged. ‘My father seems to take it for granted that we will stay for a while but tell me honestly, do you have room for us?’ His gaze swept the facade of the house and he looked doubtful.
Whatever kind of accommodation this Jasper was accustomed to, his question indicated that it was much grander than the sturdy stone farmhouse before us. My grandfather Tudur Fychan had built Tŷ Cerrig in the reign of the fourth King Henry, after English soldiers had run him off his lands during Glyn Dŵr’s rebellion, when half of Wales had risen against the English occupation. On that dreadful occasion they had put his family’s timber-framed house in Ynys Môn to the torch and in due course, when my grandfather Tudur at last managed to establish a new home on land in the foothills of Yr Wyddfa, he proudly called it Tŷ Cerrig – House of Stone – to show that he had built a place that would defy the flames. But it was just two floors: the lower one was a byre and a dairy and the upper floor was where we all lived. All the outbuildings, barns, stables, brewery, kennel and latrine, were made of timber. My father Hywel came back from England with his French wife to take over the family farm when Tudur Fychan died before I was born.
I quickly dismissed Jasper’s doubts. ‘Oh yes, there is plenty of room at this time of year. Now that the cows are out in the fields and the byre is scrubbed clean, the boys sleep downstairs. Fresh straw makes a good pallet.’
He laughed. ‘It is probably considerably cleaner and more comfortable than some places we have lodged in during our journey.’
I gestured through the door, towards the steep ladder-stair that led to the family quarters. ‘Shall we go up? There is refreshment ready.’
He glanced back at the horses. Maredudd and Dai were walking them towards the stable.
I understood his concern for his mount. ‘You do not have to worry. The boys will see to them and bring in your saddlebags.’
He nodded. ‘I am sure they will. I was just remembering that there is a brace of hares in one of the bags. My father did some hunting while we were crossing the high moors yesterday. He is a crack shot with his bow. In this warm weather they will be ready for eating.’
I smiled happily, for this meant the chickens were reprieved and our egg supply preserved. ‘We will roast them this evening,’ I said. ‘I will see to it. You go on in and meet your hostess.’
‘I feel as if I have already met her,’ he said, gazing at me earnestly and making me blush again, ‘and I look forward to the rest of my stay, however long or short it may be.’
I went off to search for the hares with a spring in my step.
* * *
We ate outside in the soft evening light, eleven of us around the long board used for harvest feasting. Even Bethan managed to clamber down the stair and sit with us, smiling happily and saying little but looking bonny in her best blue gown, laced at its loosest. My youngest brother Evan, a cheeky dark imp of eight, had been sent to the neighbouring farm across the valley to bring Bethan’s parents, Emrys and Gwyladus, to meet the three Tudors and we all squeezed onto benches and stools, with the big wooden armchair brought down from the hall and packed with cushions for Bethan. Beyond the farmyard wall the ground sloped towards the west, giving us a fine view over the vast sweep of Tremadog Bay and, in the far distance, the dark humps of the Lleyn Peninsula, Gwynedd’s westernmost arm. As the sun dipped below the hills the sky turned from pink to ochre, gold and red, reflecting off the sea and turning the bay to a fiery crucible. Such long, stunning sunsets were infrequent here and we made the most of it, the men draining a cask of father’s treasured malmsey and talking on well after the last of the pottage had been scraped from the cauldron and the bones of the hares tossed to the dogs.
‘It is a pity that Gwyneth is no longer here with us,’ Hywel said to Owen as I brought baskets of dried fruit and bowls of cream to dip it in – a rare treat, because most of our cream was made into cheese for winter. ‘Perhaps you remember her as an infant, Owen? She was our firstborn and lived with us at Hadham when Queen Catherine was still alive. She married two years ago to a man from Ynys Môn – or do you call it Anglesey now that you are an English gentleman?’
Owen smiled, his teeth showing impressively few gaps. ‘It depends who I am with, Hywel. Did she marry a relative, another descendant of the great Ednyfed Fychan, Steward to the Prince of all Wales?’
My father’s teeth did not make such a fair showing. ‘It would be hard not to in that part of Wales, would it not? She is living in the Tudur family heartland now, taking us back where we would be still, had our fathers not supported Glyn Dŵr.’
‘Oh you are not going to start telling tales about the good old days before the great rebellion are you, my father?’ cried Maredudd, well lubricated by the wine. We were all speaking English, although some were more fluent than others in the language of our conquerors. ‘And give our guests a chance to crow about the Lancastrian victory at Shrewsbury!’
