Spare

There was some discussion at this point of Option 3. Or was it Option 2? It was all starting to give me a headache. They were wearing me down. I didn’t bloody care which option we adopted, so long as security remained in place. I pleaded for continuation of the same armed police protection I’d had, and needed, since birth. I’d never been allowed to go anywhere without three armed bodyguards, even when I was supposedly the most popular member of the family, and now I was the target, along with my wife and son, of unprecedented hate—and the leading proposal under discussion called for total abandonment?

Madness.

I offered to defray the cost of security out of my own pocket. I wasn’t sure how I’d do that, but I’d find a way.

I made one last pitch: Look. Please. Meg and I don’t care about perks, we care about working, serving—and staying alive.

This seemed simple and persuasive. All the heads around the table went up and down.

As the meeting came to a close there was a basic, general agreement. The many fine, granular details of this hybrid arrangement would be sorted out over a twelve-month transitional period, during which we’d continue to have security.

Granny rose. We all rose. She walked out.

For me there was one more piece of unfinished business. I went off to find the office of the Bee. Luckily, I ran into the Queen’s friendliest page, who’d always liked me. I asked for directions; he said he’d take me himself. He led me through the kitchen, up some back stairs, down a narrow corridor.

Just that way, he said, pointing.

A few steps later I came upon a huge printer, churning out documents. The Bee’s assistant swung into view.

Hello!

I pointed at the printer and said: This seems to be working fine?

Yes, Your Royal Highness!

Not broken?

That thing? It’s indestructible, sir!

I asked about the printer in the Bee’s office. That one work too?

Oh, yes, sir! Did you need to print something out?

No, thank you.

I went farther down the corridor, through a door. Everything suddenly looked familiar. Then I remembered. This was the corridor where I’d slept that Christmas after returning from the South Pole. And now along came the Bee. Head on. He saw me and looked extremely sheepish…for a bee. He could tell what I was up to. He heard the printer whirring away. He knew he was busted. Oh, sir, please, sir, don’t worry about that, it’s really not important.

Isn’t it?

I walked away from him, went downstairs. Someone suggested that before I left I should step outside with Willy. Cool our heads.

All right.

We went up and down the yew hedges. The day was freezing. I was wearing only a light jacket, and Willy was in a jumper, so both of us were shivering.

I was struck again by the beauty of it all. As in the state room, I felt as if I’d never seen a palace before. These gardens, I thought, they’re paradise. Why can’t we just enjoy them?

I was braced for a lecture. It didn’t come. Willy was subdued. He wanted to listen. For the first time in a long time my brother heard me out, and I was so grateful.

I told him about one past staff member sabotaging Meg. Plotting against her. I told him about one current staff member, whose close friend was taking payments for leaking private stuff to the press about Meg and me. My sources on this were above reproach, including several journalists and barristers. Plus, I’d made a visit to New Scotland Yard.

Willy frowned. He and Kate had their own suspicions. He’d look into it.

We agreed to keep talking.

76.

I jumped into the car and was immediately told that a strongly worded denial had been put out by the Palace, squashing that morning’s bullying story. The denial was signed by none other than…me. And Willy. My name attached by faceless others to words I’d never even seen—let alone approved? I was stunned.

I went back to Frogmore. From there, remotely, over the next few days, I took part in the drafting of a final statement, which went out January 18, 2020.

The Palace announced that The Duke and Duchess of Sussex had agreed to “step back,” that we’d no longer “formally” represent the Queen, that our HRH titles would be in “abeyance” during this transitional year—and that we’d offered to reimburse the Sovereign Grant for refurbishments to Frogmore Cottage.

A firm “no comment” on the status of our security.

I flew back to Vancouver. Delicious reunion with Meg, Archie and the dogs. And yet, for a few days, I didn’t feel fully back. Part of me was still in Britain. Still at Sandringham. I spent hours glued to my phone, and the internet, monitoring the fallout. The ire directed at us by the papers and the trolls was alarming.