“That should not be necessary, Francis,” Rob said, “A cleverly jingled purse will bring someone forward. Money talks, as the saying goes.”

“You will have my undying gratitude if you are successful, Francis,” Richard said. “We must find Anne. It may take you a morning, but I’ll wager that, by terce, you will be handing out a noble.”

It took less than an hour for Francis to discover that Anne, dressed as a scullery wench, had been secreted from the house one night and hidden in the kitchen of a nearby tavern or inn, the name of which was the only piece of information still missing.

Richard was incredulous. He stared at Francis for a full ten seconds before hurling a filigreed silver cup across the room, stirring a memory of a similar scene with Warwick at Middleham. Francis winced, the cup having missed him by the width of a broadsword’s blade, and Rob suppressed a smile.

“This is too outrageous to be true,” Richard fumed. “Is there no code of chivalry left? Do you have reason to doubt your informant, Francis? Perhaps ’tis a lie fabricated by George.”

Francis scratched his wispy new beard. “Nay, my lord, I swear the man was telling the truth.” His hand went to his dagger and he grinned. “A little persuasion along with the noble went a long way to extracting the truth,” and he then put his hand to his codpiece. “The man seemed to want to hold onto his jewels.” Rob sniggered, but Richard was in no mood for humor, so Francis continued, “It was he who had smuggled the kitchen maid’s attire to George’s squire and helped dispose of Anne’s wardrobe.”

Rob snatched up his bonnet and crammed it on his head. “Let us not waste time talking about this, lads. We must find the poor lady as fast as we can.”

Richard nodded, buckled on his shortsword and grabbed a fur-lined cloak hanging on the peg. “Onward!” he cried, flinging open the door and calling for his squire. “Fetch our horses immediately, John,” he commanded the brawny young man.

Soon the trio was cantering out of Baynard’s courtyard and onto Thames Street. They began with the area adjacent to Coldharbour and shocked several tavern owners by sweeping into their modest establishments demanding to search the kitchens. Each time, they found nothing, and Rob began to think this a fool’s errand. And then their luck turned. At an inn at the top of Bread Street, the landlord, on seeing the three noblemen enter, was clearly flustered.

Richard took the man by the arm and led him to a secluded corner. While Richard interrogated him, Rob and Francis moved quietly through the archway that led down to the kitchens.

“Do you know who I am?” Richard demanded. The frightened landlord, his rheumy eyes darting in all directions, shook his head at the grim young duke. “I am Richard, duke of Gloucester, brother to his grace, the king,” and he grasped the small man’s stooped shoulders to make sure he was paying attention, “and brother to the duke of Clarence. Has a servant of his placed a kitchen maid in your employ recently? The man would have worn the bull badge of Clarence.”