A brush with royalty

King Henry VIII stands between us at the Tampa Bay Renaissance Faire. The real Henry Tudor is pictured at right.

I've met two kings in my life. In Africa, I spent a pleasant enough morning with King Mpasi, up on the northern border between Namibia and Angola. On Saturday, however, I met up with King Henry VIII. Henry struck me as the most authentic king. This is not to say Mpasi was not an impressive character. Maybe it was the see-through, mesh T-shirt that made him “un-kinglike”. Maybe it was that I had to teach him how to use an asthma inhaler – for which he was extremely grateful. No matter, the guy who carried off the title with authentic gravitas definitely was Henry.

Henry, the second of the Tudor kings, strolled around the Tampa Bay Renaissance Faire, holding forth in regal form. All his vassals bowed and scraped before him. They remained bowed until he acknowledged them and bid them arise. He reigned just shy of 38 years from 21 April 1509 – 28 January 1547.

Henry was the reason Jo and I had driven north to spend time in his kingdom.

After he discovered me he reached out and gave me a bear-hug. For Henry is a long-lost friend and former reporting/writing colleague. He is a massive man, quite realistic in terms of the royal fellow who went through six wives.

Jo, not realizing that Henry stays in character no matter what, hugged him and said, “Oh, Michael. It is so good to see you.” “My lady, you know me not,” said the king. “For I am Henry Tudor.” And so he stayed, chatting with us in early and quaint English, carrying us back to those pre-Elizabethan days. We were constantly interrupted by passersby who asked to be photographed with him. He gladly acceded to their requests, always addressing them with regal bearing and asking that they place their left hand above his raised right hand. He entertained the assembled masses while his yeomen stood by with their pikes.

The king also had a chamberlain whose job it was to keep him moving along. We walked through the faire together, but the chamberlain stepped up to the king and asked if he would be willing to perform a marriage ceremony for a betrothed couple. Henry was on his way to knight some worthy commoners but he veered off and made his way up to the couple, Jennifer and Alan. They were dressed in medieval costumes, with their two daughter in long velvet dresses.
Henry stopped at the entrance to the chapel until a vassal could raise a fluttering banner, permitting him entrance with having to stoop.

The to-be-married couple approached and were given in marriage by a white-clad knight. Henry proceeded with consummate skill to perform the ceremony. Bride Jennifer had tears on her cheeks as she sealed the ceremony by placing a ring on her beloved's finger.

After the deed was done, King Henry signed the papers to make the marriage official (Michael, as I recall from the mid-seventies, became an ordained minister in one of these mail-order preacher legitimizers). Then he proceeded along the path to make knights of men.

The faire was a melange of beautiful girls in high-waisted corsets that did much to accentuate the positive protrusion of their breasts. Men looked suitably rugged in their leathers and plain kilt. A number were warlocks and sprouted petite horns on their foreheads.

There was every kind of activity: palm reading, men diving into mud, camel riding, brawny men – and equally brawny women – throwing a metal weight. The women threw a 14 pound one, while the guys threw a 28-pounder. On the advice of the king, Jo and I made our way to the rat-catcher's show with Emrys Fleet. We had been told this was a former copy-boy from the 1970s at The St. Petersburg Times although I could in no way recognize him. He'd given up on newspapering in 1979 and turned his full attention to being a faire performer. This was one funny dude. He was daring in his willingness to out-wait his audience till they got the joke – and then got the audience to laugh at itself. His polished, laugh-filled act confirmed for me that he made the right decision to take the route of performing.

We sauntered over to the Scottish-Irish games area for lunch. I quizzed a vendor about the quality of his haggis since I'd recently bought an inferior version of this Scottish delicacy. He assured me his was the best haggis to be had in Florida. He even offered me a forkful and it was just enough to encourage me to order a haggis and chips platter. Mmmmm. Now that puts hair on your chest.