Spare

Marko, however, wasn’t your typical teacher. Perpetually moving, perpetually doing, he loved many things—food, travel, nature, guns, us—but he had no interest in giving lectures. He was more about leading by example. And having a good time. He was one great big ginger Mardi Gras, and if you wanted to join the party, wonderful, and if not, that was grand too. I wondered many times, watching him wolf his dinner, gulp his gin, shout another joke, slap another tracker on the back, why more people weren’t like this guy.

Why didn’t more at least try?

I wanted to ask Willy what it was like to have such a man minding him, guiding him, but apparently the Eton rule carried over to Botswana: Willy didn’t want to know me in the bush any more than he did back at school.

The one thing about Marko that gave me pause was his time in the Welsh Guards. I’d sometimes look at him on that trip and see those eight Welsh Guards in their red tunics, hoisting that coffin onto their shoulders and marching down the abbey aisle…I tried to remind myself that Marko wasn’t there that day. I tried to remind myself that, anyway, the box was empty.

All was well.

When Tiggy “suggested” I go to bed, always before everyone else, I didn’t squawk. The days were long, the tent was a welcome cocoon. Its canvas smelt pleasantly of old books, its floor was covered with soft antelope skins, my bed was wrapped in a cozy African rug. For the first time in months, years, I’d drop off straightaway. Of course it helped to have that campfire glowing against the wall, to hear those adults on the other side, and the animals beyond. Screeches, bleats, roars, what a racket they made after dark—their busy time. Their rush hour. The later it got, the louder they got. I found it soothing. I also found it hilarious: no matter how loud the animals, I could still hear Marko laughing.

One night, before I fell asleep, I made myself a promise: I’m going to find a way to make that guy laugh.

23.

Like me, Marko had a sweet tooth. Like me, he particularly loved puddings. (He always called them “puds.”) So I got the idea of spiking his pudding with Tabasco sauce.

At first he’d howl. But then he’d realize it was a trick, and laugh. Oh, how he’d laugh! Then he’d realize it was me. And laugh louder!

I couldn’t wait.

The next night, as everyone tucked into their dinner, I tiptoed out of the meal tent. I went down the footpath, fifty meters, into the kitchen tent, and poured a whole teacup of Tabasco into Marko’s bowl of pudding. (It was bread and butter, Mummy’s favorite.) The kitchen crew saw me, but I put a finger to my lips. They chuckled.

Scurrying back into the meal tent, I gave Tiggy a wink. I’d already taken her into my confidence and she thought the whole caper brilliant. I don’t remember if I told Willy what I was up to. Probably not. I knew he wouldn’t have approved.

I squirmed, counting the minutes until dessert was served, fighting back giggles.

Suddenly someone cried out: Whoa!

Someone else cried: What the—!

In unison we all turned. Just outside the open tent was a tawny tail swishing through the air.

Leopard!

Everyone froze. Except me. I took a step towards it.

Marko gripped my shoulder.

The leopard walked away, like a prima ballerina, across the footpath where I’d just been.

I turned back in time to see the adults all look at one another, mouths open. Holy fuck. Then their eyes turned towards me. Holy fuuuuck.

They were all thinking the same thing, picturing the same banner headline back home.

Prince Harry Mauled by Leopard.

The world would reel. Heads would roll.

I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about Mummy. That leopard was clearly a sign from her, a messenger she’d sent to say:

All is well. And all will be well.

At the same time I also thought: The horror!

What if Mummy were to come out of hiding at last, only to learn that her younger son had been eaten alive?

24.

As a royal you were always taught to maintain a buffer zone between you and the rest of Creation. Even working a crowd you always kept a discreet distance between Yourself and Them. Distance was right, distance was safe, distance was survival. Distance was an essential bit of being royal, no less than standing on the balcony, waving to the crowds outside Buckingham Palace, your family all around you.

Of course, family included distance as well. No matter how much you might love someone, you could never cross that chasm between, say, monarch and child. Or Heir and Spare. Physically, but also emotionally. It wasn’t just Willy’s edict about giving him space; the older generation maintained a nearly zero-tolerance prohibition on all physical contact. No hugs, no kisses, no pats. Now and then, maybe a light touching of cheeks…on special occasions.