As the royal carriage bumped along the road to Windsor Castle, the loquacious Prince Phillip filled his servant's ears with the constant chatter of his love-stricken heart. Troubled by a Cupid's injury, the prince could only focus on winning the hand of a young lady he honestly did not deserve.

"Don't you see, Santiago, she is meant for me," said the prince to his servant. His servant was not convinced.

"I fear this affliction of the heart is desire. And all unions made in lust are mismatched till the end. As a scholared man thou should understand the behavior of love. It must learn and earn its keep so to be carved in the heart forever. Love is not commonly struck as stories may tell. It is patience that makes it considered."

"Fie," declared Phillip, his elation unhindered. "But poets would disagree. And they speak from the heart whereas scholars speak from the mind. Where does love rule? Answer me, Santiago, where does love rule?"

"The chest it rules," sighed Santiago, touching his breast. Phillip patted his servant's back.

"Indeed, my friend. The chest."

"But poets, sire, rarely write happy things, and where love is written it is often the love of the soul. Not the flesh. Not a pretty face. Do thou know Margarete's soul? Answer me, sire, do thou know the princess's soul? "

"Through the windows I peered and behold I saw it brighter than the sun. I am obsessed and confident."

"Aye," said Santiago turning away. "You are unswayed then. A blind poet, not a prince, sits before me smelling of London's worst and caught in the sunlight."

"Then will you guide me?" asked Phillip. The cart rocked and the horses outside neighed. "I trust in you, Santiago, more than any brother or cousin. Though the same age we traveled this world, your words are wiser than mine. Let me be this foolish poet for once, and if I fail, clean me and pull me back from the sun."

"For you, my lord, I will do my best. And we start with a bath."

The two men chuckled as the carriage stode on.

"So this plot of love," asked Santiago, "how shall it play?"

"Simple, my friend," said Phillip, picking at the Santiago's affluent clothes which once were his own. "We have already switched our garbs, and no one within the castle knows the face of Prince Phillip."

"You suggest taking my place? For I to be the prince and you my servant?"

"You know all my mannerisms and all courtly rules. It should be an easy exchange." Phillip smiled. "I will treat you no differently except in title and name. A disguise to fool all within so I, the poet, may woo the Lady Margarete. Test her heart as poets do with beauty of the soul."

Santiago exhaled. His face nervous and distant hesitantly answered.

"And let me guess, I will be the scholar of richly arrogance to test her mind. See that she chooses words, your words, over titles and things."

Phillip smiled and stared out of the window at the evening sky. His foot tapped excitedly.

"It is only for a short time, Santiago. A month at the most."

Santiago sighed.

"My choice is not my own," he answered. "Do with me as you will, sire."

With a cry of joy, Phillip embraced Santiago.

"Thou surely is my greatest and most cherished friend. Be merry! These days as a prince will be memories of good times and fine wines. A gift for your loyalty all these years."

Santiago did not share the Prince's jubilance.

"This game my lord intends is a dangerous one. If I am discovered, my identity compromised, then my head will roll as a charlatan and a traitor to both the Spanish and the English crown. And you, my lord, will never be trusted in court again." Santiago bowed at his master's feet. "I fear the worst."

"Fear not, my friend," said Phillip, lifting Santiago back to his seat. "You have the blessing of a prince and a future king. Rewards will favor you all the days you live. Should we succeed and Margarete be mine, I will grant thee freedom, lordship, and lands, a place in my court as advisor to my council."

Santiago nodded. "I have your word as truth?"

"You have the word of a poet. And a poet speaks only."

The carriage stopped. The horses grew quiet. Outside stood many lords and ladies and just as many servants. A knock pelted the door. From the opening appeared a man with a wig of white and skin whiter still. He bowed at the waist.

"Welcome to Windsor Castle, Prince Phillip of Spain." The man reached out a hand towards Santiago to aid him in his descent from the carriage. The servant swallowed nervously.

"Indeed," said Santiago pushing a smile across his face and grabbing the man's hand. "Such beautiful countryside this England."

He exited first followed by Phillip. The white-wigged man rose a handkerchief to his nose. Phillip, smelling worse than the horses, did not receive the royal treatment. He hobbled out of the carriage, quickly went to work grabbing bags, and trailed behind Santiago at a distance worthy of a servant. Santiago was a natural prince. He greeted each lord and lady with finesse and grace. Not a single one suspected that minutes before a prince and his servant had rewrote their roles, and stood before them now a pair of magicians. By the time the two men entered the great hall and felt the gravity of English splendor rain upon them, the illusion was complete.