With Love, King Henry VIII

“I’m Philip Radcliffe. And we only met briefly, Beth.”

That voice. “Now I remember! At the costume shop. I didn’t know you were going to be here. I–“

“I urgently need to talk to you, Beth. But the king has asked to meet you, so that conversation must wait. I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Bouvier.”

“Ah, French descent. Good. And I don’t mean to be so personal so soon, but to introduce you properly, it would help if I knew your mother’s maiden name.”

“Yeah, right, the ‘king‘ wants to see me. I’ll admit this whole make-believe show had me freaked at first. But if I can play dress up, I guess I can play along. My mother’s name was C’ de Baca.”

Philip smiled. “Spanish. Interesting. Possibly a political advantage. But I have one request. For this ball to be a success, it’s vital you follow the manners and protocol of the court.”

“Do you mean like in Shakespeare’s time?”

“A bit earlier.”

“I get my English monarch succession mixed up. Do you mean Queen Elizabeth I?” she asked.

“Close. Trust me and follow my lead.”

She nodded. The echoes of Margaret the shop owner’s voice assured her she could rely on him. Margaret had also mentioned something about the SCA. “Ah-ha! I’m starting to understand, Philip. Society for Creative Anachronism. I just didn’t realize how many accountants were closet knights, damsels, and buxom tavern wenches. I assume there are some professional actors mixed in. You guys dot every I, and cross every T when it comes to authenticity. The clothes, the decorations, the speech, even the,” she waved her free hand in front of her nose, “smells.”

“Listen, Beth. As of this moment, you must take onthe role of a highborn lady. Don’t forget that for a single second.” Philip inclined his head as he whispered, but suddenly his attention shifted forward.