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that he might have tried to prise the truth out of her by indirect ones and that Duchess Cicely was saying nothing one way or another. But what did strike me most forcibly, although it was more by the tone of his voice than by what he had actually said, was that Duke Richard desperately wanted his mother’s eighteen-year-old accusation to be true. Why?
    The reason, I supposed, was obvious: if his beloved brother really was no son of the late Duke of York, but the bastard of an archer, then he, Richard of Gloucester, was rightful heir to the throne of England and not the half-Woodville brat at present called the Prince of Wales. (Indeed, he was already the rightful king.) He had to know the truth: rumours and suspicion were no good to him. But how was he to discover it after forty years if the one person who knew the answer refused to reveal it?
    I wondered how long Timothy Plummer had been in the duke’s confidence. Long enough, obviously, for his agents to have tracked down a man who had served under the Duke of York’s command in France all those years previously and who, moreover, had a wife who had been one of the duchess’s tiring-women in Rouen, where King Edward had been conceived and born.
    But ‘tracked down’ was hardly the term to use. This useless bunch of so-called spies had merely heard of a man who had once lived in Paris and were unable to say if he were living there still. Nor could they describe him, apart from the fact that he was English and his dame French. At least I had a name, Robin Gaunt, although, heaven knew, he might well have changed it to something more Gallic in the intervening forty years.
    I must have been looking grim, for the duke suddenly leaned over and seized one of my hands between both of his.
    â€˜Roger, forgive me for asking you to do this. I’m perfectly well aware that you haven’t yet been home to your wife and children. Believe me when I say that neither they nor you will suffer financial hardship in your absence. But you realize how delicate a matter this is and there is no one else that I can trust with it.’
    â€˜Timothy Plummer?’ I suggested drily.
    He shook his head. ‘He can’t be spared: I need him on other work. And you are completely unknown in France. You can travel as Mistress Gray’s husband and it will be the perfect disguise.’
    â€˜And yet she’s to be kept in the dark regarding my mission. Without her to speak French and translate for me, I’m likely to prove a broken reed, and so I warn Your Highness. And how I’m to escape from her for maybe hours at a time, and without arousing her suspicions, I’m not sure.’ I added daringly, ‘Perhaps, my lord, you have a suggestion?’
    The duke smiled and gave me the same answer as Timothy Plummer: ‘You’ll manage.’
    I sighed, keeping my temper. ‘I can only hope,’ I retorted acidly, ‘that the confidence you and your spymaster profess to have in me is not misplaced. I give Your Highness due warning that, in this instance, I may fail you.’
    He released my hand and rose to his feet. I followed suit. ‘I refuse even to contemplate your failure. You will find this Robin Gaunt for me and find out what he knows.’
    â€˜And if I do but he knows nothing, my lord? What then?’
    He shrugged, the gesture showing up the slight unevenness of his shoulders, caused by the overuse of his sword arm from a very early age. ‘Let’s not anticipate defeat,’ he said. ‘Godspeed, Roger. I shall hope to see you the week after next when you return.’ He must have noticed my dismayed expression, because he laughed. ‘Don’t worry. If you haven’t returned by the time I leave for the North, make your report to Master Plummer and he will send an express messenger to Middleham.’ He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. ‘And now I must dismiss you. I have to dress for this