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Chapter Four: Dear Master Osbeck.

Sir Robert Clifford watched as a large greyhound chewed at one of Margaret of Burgundy's finest tapestries, and smiled. The threads unravelled, twining themselves around the beast's teeth as it's jaws worked furiously at the fine fabrics. It whiled away the time Clifford spent waiting for the Duchess and the Pretender to grant him his audience quite nicely. Not until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps from the Outer Gallery did he dash across the room, and pretend to be wresting the animal away from the woven work of art that hung on the wall.

'Your Grace!' Sir Robert cried, he straddled the dog, it's head now between his knees, his hand clamped over it's jaws. "Your dog … this beautiful tapestry." He shot the Duchess an helplessly apologetic look as he gestured to the ruins that now hung limply on the wall. Margaret's face contorted painfully at the sight of the carnage, but the Pretender at her side merely looked mildly amused.

'Give him here!' She snapped as she crossed the room, seizing the beast by its' tough leather collar and marching him out of the room. Margaret exited, and left nothing but a cloud of rose water scent behind her, and her Pretender nephew.

The two men looked at each other from across the room for a moment, before breaking the silence with a casual quip at the dog's expense. Sir Robert, however, was much keener to move on to other business in the merciful absence of the Duchess.

'I hear that the King of France has come up with the goods for Your Grace,' He enquired as they settled themselves into the two seats on either side of the Duchess's up on the dais.

'Ships, money, and men,' The Pretender gratifyingly listed them off, holding up his long, slender fingers as he did so.

'You know that King Henry will be riding north to Scotland. His daughter, Margaret, is to marry the Scots' King, James,' Clifford explained. 'England will not be left entirely unguarded, naturally, but they will be extremely vulnerable while Henry is in Scotland.'

The Pretender weighed up Clifford's words carefully, like a mathematical problem, before making any reply.

'If we give him a few weeks to get well out of London, by the time we set sail and reach the English coast, he should have arrived in Scotland. How long will it take for a messenger to then reach Henry in Scotland to inform him of my arrival? Maybe another two weeks, perhaps even a month?'

'He doesn't have a hope, Your Grace,' Clifford assures him confidently. 'You will land on the Kent coast while he is in Edinburgh. The only real problem will be capturing him after his defeat.'

The Pretender's expression hardened as though he'd never really paid much thought to the disposal of his nemesis. Sir Robert wondered if the Pretender thought that invading a country was as easy as entering a brothel. Just smile nicely, pay your money, and have your own way; all pleasure and no pain.

'He will have to be dealt with,' Clifford insists. 'You have planned for that, haven't you?'

'Of course!' The Pretender snaps back impatiently. 'But, I needn't get blood on my own hands. Like I said, I have friends inside the English Court, inside Henry's inner circle-'

'Ones that will commit regicide, if necessary?' Sir Robert's stomach lurched, but he dissembled his gut reaction, one of sheer horror, and arranged his face accordingly.

'If it comes to it,' The Pretender waved his hand dismissively, as though Henry Tudor were just an irritating fly that needed swatting. 'I'll just make sure that the best of my spies gets to Scotland, and does the deed for me.'

'Only the most trusted of Tudor's supporters will know where to reach him,' Sir Robert explained. 'I don't think you understand. Not even those with the slightest connection to the Yorkist faction-'

'No, Sir Robert, its' you that doesn't understand,' The Pretender smiled ingratiatingly. 'My most important informant fought alongside the usurper at Bosworth. Henry trusts this man with his life.'

Footprints in sand. Small clues that will soon vanish. But still Sir Robert asks no more questions about the spy, for now. All he can do, is report back to the King, and pray to all the saints in heaven that the report reaches the King before he leaves London.

Behind them, the doors the Presence Chamber burst open once more, and the Duchess appears with her skirts crumpled, and her hair falling in iron grey tresses from beneath her hood. Her face was flushed, and her eyes shone with her exertions.

'That damn brute will have to be disposed of,' She muttered furiously under her breath as she bustled over to join them on the dais. 'A blade to the throat ought to do it. Be over in seconds.'

'Sir Robert and I were just discussing that very issue, Aunt Margaret,' The Pretender informed her casually. Once again, Sir Robert is left with the impression that King Henry's life, and the lives of others, mean little to these two plotters. The fate of an entire nation, to them, is little more than a game of chequers.

'God's death yes, I mean, just look what he's done to my damn tapestry!' She points at the tattered fabrics still hung on the wall.

'Oh, you meant the dog!' The Pretender exclaimed, his eyes twinkling brightly with amusement. 'No, I thought you meant Henry Tudor.'

Margaret paused, and pondered the matter thoughtfully for a moment: 'Well, him too, of course. Goes without saying.'

With a clap of Duchess's hands, the whole room burst into activity. Servants appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as cloaks were fetched, and horses brought around the front of the Palace. The Pretender and the Duchess rose to their feet as their Grooms swathed them in fur lined cloaks.

'Are you sure that you will not be joining us for our hunting trip?' The Pretender asked, looking down at Sir Robert, where he still remained seated on the dais.

'I may ride out later,' Clifford replied. He intended to do no such thing. 'I really should be making plans for the invasion, though.'

'Very well, then,' The Duchess replied, cutting off her "nephew". 'By the way, Sir Robert, why is that you wished to see me?'

'No matter, Your Grace, it can wait until after the hunting party,' He answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'I would not want to burden you before such an even.'

Sir Robert watched as they all bustled out, chatting animatedly to one another; the Pretender exchanged easy banter with the Grooms and household servants. The entire household was going to ride out on a hunting expedition, one last outing before the Pretender sets sail for England, to reclaim his usurped crown. They would be gone for three days, and three nights, and there was just a skeleton staff remaining to wait on Clifford, and see to the safety of the house. Perfect for some long delayed investigative research that Clifford had, after all, been sent here to do to begin with.

He moved across the great bay windows and watched the vast train of people, all riding out under the Plantagenet banners, wend its' way southwards. As the last stragglers vanished into the heat haze and wood smoke that lingered in wisps across the flat, fertile land, Sir Robert allowed himself a sigh of relief.

King Henry paced restlessly across the Presence Chamber floor. The dried rushes crunched beneath his boots, and the hounds, as though sensing their master's pensiveness, skulked in the shadows of the cavernous chamber. Any minute now, and the Spanish Ambassador would arrive. Even Queen Elizabeth seemed on edge. Her hands folded in her lap, her face twisted into a fixed smile as she sat stiffly on the throne in the centre of the dais. To her right, was Henry's vacant throne. To the left of the vacant throne, sat Margaret Beaufort. Only she looked relaxed.

'Henry, sit down,' She advised. "Ambassadors are notorious for arriving at the least opportunistic moments in a King's life. Dr De Puebla will be expecting it. We don't want to disappoint."

'The Queen Mother is right, Henry,' Elizabeth adds with a nod to her mother-in-law. "You're just making the rest of us nervous."

Henry turned to face the two women, who looked back at him as though daring him to disagree. With a shrug of his shoulders, he takes his place in the centre of the two ladies, and lets the silence descend on them like a shroud of lead, once again.

Finally, however, after what seemed to have been an interminable wait, Sir William Stanley, Henry's Chamberlain appeared around the aperture in the door.

'Dr. Roderigo Gonzalez De Puebla, the Spanish Ambassador, has arrived Your Grace,' He informed the King, and sunk into a low bow.

The arrival of the Ambassador seemed to cause a considerable diffusion of tension in King Henry's body. Now that the man had finally arrived, Henry's hunched shoulders slumped, and he sat more comfortably in his seat as he reached out for Elizabeth's hand.

'Show his excellency in, please, William.'

All three of them looked up expectantly as De Puebla entered. He was a slight, squat man with swarthy skin, and beady black eyes. He pushed past Sir William Stanley, who discreetly vacated the Chamber, and bowed low to three English Royals before him. When he rose again, and moved over to kiss each of their hands in turn, he seemed to be just as curious about them, as they were about him.

'I trust your journey was a pleasant one, Your Excellence?" Queen Elizabeth asked pleasantly as De Puebla kissed the back of her hand. 'Or at least, the least unpleasant that it could be. The Channel can be rough.'

'Very pleasant, Your Grace," De Puebla answered in a heavy Spanish accent that the other three had to strain their ears to understand. He visibly shuddered at the mention of the journey, though, suggesting that it was anything but pleasant. Once he had been formally received by Lady Margaret, Henry finally signalled to his servants to fetch another chair for the ambassador.

'Welcome to my Kingdom, Dr De Puebla," Henry stated once the man was seated. "If we can get down to business, first; we can then all dine together in the Great Hall. My subjects are waiting anxiously to meet you, and hear the outcome of our negotiations."

'Certainly, Your Grace," De Puebla replied. "My masters are fully prepared to go ahead with the betrothal of the Infanta, Catherine, to the Prince of Wales. However … '

Inside, King Henry bristled. The infamous, and ill-boding "however" had arrived earlier than he expected. He braced himself for whatever new condition that the Spanish monarchs had prepared for him, and gestured to the ambassador to continue.

'However, as to the matter of the Dowry, King Ferdinand proposes that the first instalment be paid as soon as Catherine arrives in England, and her nuptials to the Prince of Wales have been formally blessed,' He explained, laying the Spanish cards clearly on the table.

'And when does Ferdinand propose to pay the rest of it?' Henry asked, his expression hardening.

'After the Infanta and the Prince of Wales have been successfully married for one full year.'

'That seems very reasonable,' Margaret Beaufort spoke, Queen Elizabeth nodded, and turned expectantly to her husband.

'Very well," Henry nodded with a smile. 'The betrothal can go ahead as soon as you report back to King Ferdinand. You yourself will stand as a proxy for the Infanta, is that right?'

'All true, and correct, Your Grace,' De Puebla beamed around at the three of them. However, he lapsed into a silence that made Henry suspect that there was more. 'There is one more thing. This Pretender to the English Crown...' De Puebla's words trailed off, and the man himself looked positively abashed at even having to mention the Pretender and his puppeteers. Henry allowed himself a small, resigned sigh. That again.

'A Pretender,' Henry spoke flatly, and pressed the palm of his hand into his armrest as if to emphasise the point. 'Nothing more, and nothing less. He is being dealt with.'

'All the same, Your Grace, we cannot go ahead with the betrothal until this Pretender is safely out of the way. Surely you can understand the reticence of my masters, the King and Queen?'

As loathe as he was to admit it, King Henry was compelled to do just that. He imagined sending his only daughter, Princess Margaret, off alone to some strange Kingdom where her rights could be usurped at the drop of a hat. It is a parents' lot to worry, but nevertheless, do all they could to minimise the dangers.

'Of course … Well, let's eat, shall we?' Henry rose, the other's followed suit, and the Grooms lead the small procession out of the Presence Chamber, and towards the Great Hall where a great feast had been prepared, and entertainments laid on for the ambassador's arrival. Both Henry and Elizabeth loved to patronise the new, Renaissance artists that came to England from the Continent, and only the best would do for their Spanish guest.

However, King Henry paused in the Outer-Gallery. He gestured to the Ambassador and Lady Margaret to proceed without him, but touched Elizabeth's elbow, a signal for her to stay.

'Look at this,' He said as he reached under his Chamberlain's table, and picked out a dog eared envelope. It bore a mark of the Burgundian's.

'Is that from Sir Robert?' Elizabeth asked, eyeing the letter suspiciously as she reached out to take it from her.

Henry took out the letter, and recognised Sir Roberts Italianate scrawl immediately. His seal was attached to the envelope, too, but that had been removed, and re-moulded back on to the parchment. It was clear to see that the letter had been tampered with. Henry looked about for his Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

'Where the devil has he got to?' Henry demanded quietly, his gaze darted around the Outer Gallery. 'Why on earth did he not hand this straight in to me?'

'Henry,' Elizabeth's voice trembled. Her face clouded over as she placed the letter back down. 'Henry, the Pretender says his spy fought alongside you at Bosworth. It's in the letter."

The Outer Gallery was deserted, and Henry seized it as the perfect opportunity to swear profusely as he read over Sir Robert Clifford's report. When he first heard of a spy in his Court, he naturally thought of the Yorkists, one of his wife's disgruntled relatives. Henry's step father, Sir Thomas Stanley, had waded into the Battle of Bosworth at the very last minute, only once it had become clear that his friend, Richard of Gloucester, was loosing. Stanley's brother, and King Henry's Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, was fighting alongside him. You could never trust a Stanley. That's what everyone had said to him. Now William Stanley was secretly reading confidential despatches that were none of his concern.

'Say it's not him...' Henry glanced over at Elizabeth, who looked back at him with such sorrow as he'd never seen. But, when she spoke again, it was to try and restore some reason and faith.

'We have no solid proof, Henry. Find Sir William, and get the full story from him. I will send out the search party, while you get back to the ambassador. Tell De Puebla that I was feeling faint, to explain my absence. De Puebla must not find out about this!"

'You're my angel,' Henry sighed as he pulled her into a hug. She laughed into his chest, and squeezed him back. 'Keep calm, and carry on.'

They kissed, and caressed each other tenderly. There was no one there to see them. A rare event, and one which they wanted to make the most of, even under these circumstances. Only reluctantly did they pull back from one another. Henry watched Elizabeth as she swept out into the Palace. A deep, steadying breath later, and he followed suit. His mother, children, subjects and esteemed foreign guests were all waiting for him.

Sir Robert bolted the heavy oak door behind him, and struck flints to light the tallow fat candles that were set in plinths around his chambers. The guttering glow of the flames seemed to make the shadows deepen, if anything, and make the stubble on the man's jaw even darker. The lacing at the collar of his shirt had loosened, he was unkempt and dishevelled. His stomach growled with hunger, and his body screamed for sleep. Even as he slumped in his seat, waiting for the light to stabilise, he could feel the tug of unconsciousness nagging at his head.

However, his unceasing efforts seemed to have paid off. Sir Robert held in his hands two letters, found among the possessions of the Pretender. It was no conclusive evidence as to his true identity, but it was a start. It was the first, tentative steps towards the truth, and all he, Clifford, had to do was find the missing pieces.

Sir Robert flattened out the first letter, and pulled one of the spitting fat candles closer to read the minute scrawl. The name on the envelope was Pierre Osbeck:

"Dear Master Osbeck,

May I heartily commend me unto you, and pray that this letter finds you in good health.

I would like to begin by thanking you for the payment, (even if it was rather late), of twenty-five crowns towards the money we lent you some time previous.

However, as I am sure you understand, this sum of money doesn't even cover the interest that has built up on your original loan from us!

It is with a heavy heart, therefore, that I must insist that another payment is made to us before the end of this week."

Sir Robert folded the letter carefully away, and took out the second letter. Again, he tilted the parchment (this one addressed to a Perkin Warbecque), and read swiftly onwards, muttering the words as he went:

"Dear Perkin,

Mine own dear son, what have you gotten yourself into now? Your mother and I are not rich people, Perkin. We simply cannot afford to keep financially bailing you out every time you fancy treating yourself to another loan, to pay for yet more fancy clothes and day trips to Provence!

However, you are our son, and as such, we want to help you in every way we can. Please find enclosed the monies you need to pay off the creditor, and that way you can at least avoid the debtor's prison. Do not do this again,

Your ever loving father,

Jehan Warbecque.

The letter addressed to Warbecque was dated three months later than the one addressed to Osbeck.

'Perkin Warbecque... Pierre Osbeck', Sir Robert repeated the names to himself as he thoughtfully tapped the tips of fingers against the parchment of Jehan's letter. Two different, but remarkably similar names, one letter definitely in relation to the other.

The Duchess's hunting party was due to return at any hour. Sir Robert had to weigh his options carefully. Even though he'd carefully covered the tracks of his search, he could still be found out. If he ran to Flanders to seek out Jehan Warbecque now, he could never return here and question the Pretender any further. It was a risk. Clifford fell back against the mattress and stared up at the canopy above his head. He needed sleep more than anything. But he needed to get moving. So close to a solution, he could almost touch it. Somewhere deep in his brain, a decision made itself of its' own accord, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.