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75.

Days later there was a meeting at Sandringham. I don’t remember who called it the Sandringham

Summit. Someone in the press, I suspect.

On my way there I got a text from Marko about a story in The Times.

Willy was declaring that he and I were now “separate entities.”

“I’ve put my arm around my brother all our lives and I can’t do that anymore,” he said.

Meg had gone back to Canada to be with Archie, so I was on my own for this summit. I got

there early, hoping to have a quick chat with Granny. She was sitting on a bench before the

fireplace and I sat down beside her. I saw the Wasp react with alarm. He went buzzing off and

moments later returned with Pa, who sat beside me. Immediately after him came Willy, who

looked at me as if he planned to murder me. Hello, Harold. He sat across from me. Separate

entities indeed.

When all participants had arrived, we shifted to a long conference table, with Granny at the

head. Before each chair was a royal notepad and pencil.

The Bee and the Wasp conducted a quick summary of where we were. The subject of the press

came up pretty quickly. I referenced their cruel and criminal behavior, but said they’d had a ton of

help. This family had enabled the papers by looking the other way, or by actively courting them,

and some of the staff had worked directly with the press, briefing them, planting stories,

occasionally rewarding and fêting them. The press was a big part of why we’d come to this crisis

—their business model demanded that we be in constant conflict—but they weren’t the only

culprits.

I looked at Willy. This was his moment to jump in, echo what I was saying, talk about his

maddening experiences with Pa and Camilla. Instead he complained about a story in the morning

papers suggesting that he was the reason we were leaving.

I’m now being accused of bullying you and Meg out of the family!

I wanted to say: We had nothing to do with that story…but imagine how you might feel if we

had leaked it. Then you’ll know how Meg and I have felt the last three years.

The private secretaries began to address Granny about the Five Options.

Your Majesty, you’ve seen the Five Options.

Yes, she said.

We all had. They’d been emailed to us, five different ways of proceeding. Option 1 was

continuance of the status quo: Meg and I don’t leave, everyone tries to go back to normal. Option

5 was full severance, no royal role, no working for Granny, and total loss of security.

Option 3 was somewhere in between. A compromise. Closest to what we’d originally

proposed.

I told everyone assembled that, above all, I was desperate to keep security. That was what

worried me most, my family’s physical safety. I wanted to prevent a repeat of history, another

untimely death like the one that had rocked this family to its core twenty-three years earlier, and

from which we were still trying to recover.

I’d consulted with several Palace veterans, people who knew the inner workings of the

monarchy and its history and they all said Option 3 was best for all parties. Meg and I living

elsewhere part of the year, continuing our work, retaining security, returning to Britain for

charities, ceremonies, events. Sensible solution, these Palace veterans said. And eminently doable.

But the family, of course, pushed me to take Option 1. Barring that, they would only accept

Option 5.

We discussed the Five Options for nearly an hour. At last the Bee got up and went around the

table, handing out a draft of a statement the Palace would soon be releasing. Announcing

implementation of Option 5.

Wait. I’m confused. You’ve already drafted a statement? Before any discussion? Announcing

Option 5? In other words, the fix was in, this whole time? This summit was just for show?

No answer.

I asked if there were drafts of other statements. Announcing the other options.

Oh yes, of course, the Bee assured me.

Can I see them?

Alas—his printer had gone on the blink, he said. The odds! At the very moment he was about

to print out those other drafts!

I started laughing. Is this some kind of joke?

Everyone was staring away or down at their shoes.

I turned to Granny: Do you mind if I take a moment, get some air?

Of course!

I left the room. I walked into a big hall and ran into Lady Susan, who’d worked for Granny for

years, and Mr. R, my former upstairs neighbor in the badger sett. They could see I was upset and

they asked if there was anything they could do for me. I smiled and said, No, thank you, then went

back into the room.

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.