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bread is of the best,” he said to the baker.
    The baker was smiling broadly; he rubbed his hands together. “You’re not the first who has heard that, Father. I’ve a reputation hereabouts. Have you ever tried my simnel cakes?”
    “No, I have not.”
    “Then you must. Then you must.” The baker leaned forward smiling broadly. “I’m so noted for them that they’ve called me after them.”
    “Oh . . . what do you mean?” Listening to the father’s chatter he was still watching the boy.
    “I’m known as Baker Simnel. That’s after my cakes, wouldn’t you say?”
    “I would indeed. And your boy is a great help to you, I’m sure.”
    “Oh he’s young yet . . . coming up for eleven. Still he’ll be useful when he’s a year or so older.”
    One couldn’t spend the whole afternoon chatting over one cob loaf. Reluctantly Richard Simon left the shop.
    He walked thoughtfully to his lodging.
    The boy haunted him. What if it were really true that the Princes had not been murdered after all, that they had escaped . . . or perhaps been taken away and hidden somewhere . . . and where would be the best place to hide a prince? Where it would be least expected to find him. Clarence had made Anne Neville a kitchen maid. She might never have been found but for the determination of King Richard. Just suppose that boy Lambert Simnel was either King Edward the Fifth or the Duke of York. And suppose he, Richard Simon, humble priest, had found him. Suppose he restored him to the throne. The luck of King Henry the Seventh would change then would it not, and so would that of Richard Simon.

    It had become an obsession. He went to the baker’s shop whenever he could, where he engaged young Lambert in conversation. The boy did not speak like a royal prince—as soon as he opened his mouth it was apparent that he was a baker’s son. But speech was something that could be changed. How long could he have been with the baker? Three years? A boy could change a great deal in that time. He was on the point of questioning the baker, but that would have been folly. There was no doubt that the baker would have been paid well to take the boy, but he would never admit that he had; moreover, and perhaps this was the real reason for his hesitation, the baker might call him mad and prove without a single doubt that the boy Lambert was his. The dream would be shattered. Richard Simon could not bear the thought of that. He had been happier since wild schemes had been chasing each other round in his head than he had for a long time. Perhaps he only half believed them. It did not matter. They were there; they were balm to his bitterness. He saw himself being graciously received by the King whom he had restored to the throne. Whether it was Edward the Fifth or Richard the Fourth he was not sure. That did not matter. The King was there; the upstart Henry the Seventh was deposed.
    “I owe it all to my newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury,” he heard the new King saying.
    “What I did, my lord, was what any of your loyal subjects would have done had God favored them with the good fortune to see the truth.”
    He saw himself riding into Canterbury, the Archbishop who had saved the throne for the rightful king and rid the country of the impostor.
    But these were only dreams—pleasant to indulge in for a while, but insubstantial. There must be some action some time.
    He visited his friend frequently and often he was on the point of telling him of his discovery, but he refrained from doing so. He was afraid of bringing his theories into the light of day because he greatly feared they would immediately evaporate.
    Instead he talked of events of the days of great Edward and the accession of Richard.
    “The Tudor has a very flimsy claim to the throne,” he insisted.
    His friend always looked furtively over his shoulder when he talked like that. He was a timid man. “It is of little concern to us,” he said. “What difference does it make to the