In all honesty, I hadn’t been totally surprised when the Palace cut ties. I’d had a sneak preview months earlier. Just before Remembrance Day I’d asked the Palace if someone could lay a wreath for me at the Cenotaph, since, of course, I couldn’t be there.
Request denied.
In that case, I said, could a wreath be laid somewhere else in Britain on my behalf?
Request denied.
In that case, I said, perhaps a wreath could be laid somewhere in the Commonwealth, anywhere at all, on my behalf?
Request denied.
Nowhere in the world would any proxy be permitted to lay any sort of wreath at any military grave on behalf of Prince Harry, I was told.
I pleaded that this would be the first time I’d let a Remembrance Day pass without paying tribute to the fallen, some of whom had been dear friends.
Request denied.
In the end I rang one of my old instructors at Sandhurst and asked him to lay my wreath for me. He suggested the Iraq and Afghanistan Memorial, in London, which had just been unveiled a few years earlier.
By Granny.
He said it would be his honor.
Then added:
I wasn’t sure what to call her, or what exactly she did. All I knew was that she claimed to have “powers.”
I recognized the high-percentage chance of humbuggery. But the woman came with strong recommendations from trusted friends, so I asked myself: What’s the harm?
Then, the minute we sat down together, I felt an energy around her.
Oh, I thought. Wow. There’s something here.
She felt an energy around me too, she said.
She said:
I felt my neck grow warm. My eyes watered.
Patience? The word caught in my throat.
In the meantime, the woman said, my mother was very proud of me. And fully supportive. She knew it wasn’t easy.
What wasn’t?
I swallowed. I wanted to believe. I wanted every word this woman was saying to be true. But I needed proof. A sign. Anything.
Frogmore Gardens.
Hours after Grandpa’s funeral.
I’d been walking with Willy and Pa for about half an hour, but it felt like one of those days-long marches the Army put me through when I was a new soldier. I was beat.
We’d reached an impasse. And we’d reached the Gothic ruin. After a circuitous route we’d arrived back where we’d begun.
Pa and Willy were still claiming not to know why I’d fled Britain, still claiming not to know anything, and I was getting ready to walk away.
Then one of them brought up the press. They asked about my hacking lawsuit.
They still hadn’t asked about Meg, but they were keen to know how my lawsuit was going, because that directly affected them.
I’d soon prove that the press were more than liars, I said. That they were lawbreakers. I was going to see some of them thrown into jail. That was why they were attacking me so viciously: they knew I had hard evidence.
It wasn’t about me, it was a matter of public interest.
Shaking his head, Pa allowed that journalists were the
I snorted. There was always a