‘That was due to my mother. She spent her girlhood in a convent and taught us all to read and write and reckon. I am trying to ensure that Evan learns now but it is not easy, especially at this time of year when he is needed on the land. In winter it is easier to keep him at his letters. Our mother intended him for the priesthood but I cannot imagine that happening now. He is bright but not at all bookish.’ I knew I was talking too much but the words just seemed to spill out of me.
Jasper screwed up his face and shook his head in exasperation. ‘I feel I should remember your mother. Her name was Agnes was it not? But tragically I cannot even picture my own. Edmund says he can but if so he does not describe her very well. He makes her sound like a royal doll, which I am sure she was not.’
I felt a stab of pity for him. My memories of my mother were so vivid that sometimes when I was quietly sewing I felt she was sitting at my shoulder. ‘My mother always spoke of yours as an angel. There is no doubt that she was beautiful, whereas mine was like me – I think homely is the word.’
Jasper gave a derisive snort. ‘In my vocabulary homely is a polite word for ugly – and that you are not, Jane! I would say that comely is the proper word – or pretty – certainly attractive! With sweeping eyelashes like yours how could you be anything else?’
I dropped my head, hoping the white glare of moonlight would disguise the sudden colour that rushed to my cheeks. Compliments did not flow freely in our family and my reaction to Jasper’s was involuntary and regrettably rather gauche. ‘Not beautiful anyway,’ I muttered, clenching my hands together in my lap.
He made another dismissive noise. ‘Huh! I do not think beauty always begets beauty, Jane. Look at Edmund and me for instance. He has our father’s bronze good looks, whereas I am blessed with ginger hair and ruddy cheeks. My mother called me Jasper after the dark-red bloodstone in her ring and I imagine she thought the name, like the gemstone, would bring me luck. A younger son always needs luck, does he not?’
With his fresh, freckled complexion and brilliant blue eyes, which even the moon’s glare could not bleach, I wanted to say that he appeared more than comely to me but shyness prevented it. Instead I said, ‘You remember that much about her anyway.’
‘No, I do not remember that; Mette told me.’
‘Who is Mette?’
‘A very bright and forthright lady who knew both our mothers well. She is an old lady now but in some ways you remind me of her.’
Regrettably I have a mercurial temperament and abruptly my mood changed from shyness to indignation. ‘I remind you of a blunt old lady? Well, thank you indeed, sir!’ I stood up and made him a sudden curtsy. ‘Please excuse me, it is time I chased Evan to bed.’
I knew I was being rude to a guest but I could not help myself and left him frowning. Moments later I heard footsteps behind me; his voice in my ear sounded contrite. ‘I said bright, not blunt, Jane! And Mette is probably the woman I admire most in the world.’
It was not until later, curled up sleepless on my pallet by the hearth, that I appreciated the compliment hidden in Jasper’s words.
The Royal Progress; Westminster & Greenwich
SWEET JANE’S BONNY FEATURES were to become a recurring image in my mind throughout the year that followed, particularly those long, sweeping eyelashes shading her deep brown-velvet eyes. Certain memories made particularly vivid returns. In blessedly balmy weather we had shared the rustic delights of shepherding Hywel’s flock of sheep up to the high pastures and the picture of Jane, in a straw hat and long boots, with her skirts tucked up and a shepherd’s crook in her hand, made frequent visitations in my quieter moments. Later, on our return to Tŷ Cerrig, I had witnessed her handling the birth of Bethan’s baby, when she chased all the men out of the house and set about supervising the midwife, cheering the mother and reassuring the grandmother, all with seemingly unruffled efficiency. And meanwhile I managed to pick up a few words of Welsh, at least enough to identify a mab from a merch, which is to say a boy from a girl. I had little experience of females of any age but the sight of this smiling fourteen-year-old merch emerging from the front door of the farmhouse to present her father with his newborn daughter remained with me for months, inspiring comparison with church images of the Madonna and Child.
Walking our horses to the field one day Edmund had been scornful of my friendship with Jane, pointing out to me that a relationship with a Welsh farm-girl, especially one whose grandfather had been outlawed for rebelling against the crown, would not be one to mention at court. ‘Enjoy her company while we are here, Jas, bed her if you will, not that beds seem to abound in this part of the world, but for pity’s sake keep silent on the subject of Jane when we return to Westminster.’
I worried about Edmund’s attitude towards females. He did not seem to have absorbed any of the rules of chivalry drummed into us during the lessons on Arthurian legend, which the king had insisted should be part of our preparation for knighthood and which laid particular stress on respect for women. Edmund was always careful to impress our tutors with his grasp of Latin verse and philosophical texts but his moral code was that of the alehouse.
I angrily rejected his implication that I had lecherous designs on Jane. ‘The only bedding I have done here is strawing down the horses, brother – and for pity’s sake will you please stop calling me Jas!’
‘Temper, temper!’ he cried. ‘What does plain Jane call you then? Rust-head?’
‘No, but I will tell you what she calls you. Pretty boy! You frightened the sheep in your bright red doublet and yellow hose – you should have left them in London.’
‘And you should leave those mud-coloured rags of yours in Wales,’ he retaliated. ‘Along with your Welsh words and your bumpkin shepherdess – Jas!’ He had to dodge under his horse’s neck to avoid my bunched fist.
When we did return to court, however, it was not our clothes or my language which sparked a bout of teasing from our fellow squires but the tanned faces we had acquired after three months in field and saddle, weeks which we had both greatly enjoyed, no matter how much Edmund protested that he had stagnated in the ‘rural backwaters’ as he called West Wales.
But there was no prospect of a return to Wales. Memories of Jane were all I was ever likely to have, for now that Edmund and I had both reached our majority our brother the king often summoned us into his company, significantly more than the other household squires. I suspected that this was due to prompting by Queen Marguerite, who seemed to relish the notion that we were first cousins; her father’s sister, Marie of Anjou, was also our aunt by marriage, being queen to our late mother’s brother, King Charles VII of France.
‘But we cannot make anything of this in the court,’ she warned privately, in what I considered her rather charmingly broken English, ‘because King Henry is still le Roi de France, however successful are the armies of our Uncle Charles in Normandy and Maine.’
It was a moot point. According to the peace treaty that had married our mother to Henry’s father, he was officially king of France as well as England. But his commanders were gradually and ingloriously losing the vast swathes of French territory conquered by the fifth Henry and the peace of the realm was seriously threatened by hordes of displaced soldiers who, having settled in Normandy and Maine with their families, were now forced to flee the invading