The Hawk Is Dead

2

Monday 20 November 2023

Camilla, casually dressed in a jumper over a blouse and jeans, sat a companionable distance from her smartly suited husband, at the long mahogany table in the breakfast room of Clarence House. Her two Jack Russells, waiting patiently at her feet, were looking at her expectantly while she finished her porridge.

The King, seemingly deep in concentration, had been mouthing words silently to himself throughout breakfast. Between intermittent mouthfuls of muesli, dried fruit and honey he kept jotting down notes, in what looked to her like Arabic, on a pad beside him.

She smiled down at the dogs and whispered, ‘Think I’ve forgotten you?’

Beth and Bluebell’s ears twitched. They looked at her even more expectantly.

She adored these two gorgeous creatures, both rescues from Battersea Dogs Home, and the adoration was entirely mutual, though The Queen well knew that was just so long as she remembered to give them their daily treats. She broke off two small pieces from a slice of toast and slipped them under the table. With two quick crunches they were devoured.

‘I saw that!’ The King chided, raising a faintly disapproving eyebrow, accompanied by a smile that was anything but disapproving.

‘It’s just a little bit!’ She grinned back. ‘What are you working on?’

‘I’m addressing a climate change conference at Lancaster House at lunch today. It’s a speech on biodiversity to a gathering of world and business leaders. I intend to speak in several languages and I want to do as much of it as possible without referring to my notes.’

She smiled. ‘That’s brave.’

He glanced up at the wall and seemed momentarily distracted by something. Then he turned back to his wife. ‘What’s your day looking like?’

‘I’m starting my south coast hospice tour. Off to Brighton on the train — visiting Martlets in the morning. Then in the afternoon a children’s hospice and in the evening I’m going to see Hugh Bonneville in a play at Chichester Theatre. I’ll be overnighting on the train, then on to more hospices tomorrow morning. Then I’m going by helicopter to Bristol to give a talk at a big event SafeLives are hosting.’

‘The domestic abuse charity?’

‘Yes. Their work is quite remarkable.’

He glanced up at the wall again, frowned and called out loudly, ‘Gordon!’

The butler, immaculately dressed as always in his blazer, strode in from the pantry. ‘Yes, Sir, Ma’am?’ he said.

The King pointed up at a blank space. ‘What’s happened to that Landseer? I love that picture — why isn’t it there any more?’

‘I think the Royal Collection may have taken it away for cleaning, but I’ll find out, Sir.’

‘I almost fell over someone from the Royal Collection as I came down to breakfast,’ The Queen said. ‘He was lying on the floor at the base of the stairs doing something to the bottom of a picture frame.’

‘I’m very sorry, Ma’am, I’ll have a word with him.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure he was doing something important.’

As the butler retreated, King Charles said, ‘Peregrine’s going with you, isn’t he, darling?’

Sir Peregrine Greaves, as Private Secretary to Their Majesties, was seen as one of the most senior members of the Royal Household.

‘I know you want him on this trip to protect me, don’t you?’ She gave him a challenging smile.

‘Darling, he’s concerned about this protest lot — the Not-My-King anti-monarchists, republicans — whatever — threatening to disrupt your arrival in Brighton. He’s going along to keep you safe.’

‘Perhaps he could be armed with a sword? I’m sure that will be far more effective than the Glocks of the Royal Protection team.’

The King looked at his wife, unsure for a moment if she was joking. ‘Darling, you know that Peregrine always has our backs.’

She buttered the other half of the slice of toast she’d given to the dogs. ‘I do, but...’ She hesitated.

‘But what?’ he pressed.

‘Bless him, I know he means well, but sometimes I feel he’s over-protective. Yesterday he tried to persuade me to cancel the trip — tried really hard. I told him quite clearly I will not be cancelling. With my schedule as it is, it could take six months to rearrange this tour.’

‘I understand,’ he said.

‘I had a long chat with Tommy last night. He agreed I should stick to my guns. The protestors aren’t going away.’

‘Tommy’ was Major General Sir Tommy Magellan-Lacey, Master of The King’s Household, and another senior royal employee. He was someone both The King and Queen adored and trusted totally. The warning about what Queen Camilla might expect on arrival at Brighton Station had come from him, through intelligence from the RaSPs — the Royalty and Specialist Protection team — and from the Scotland Yard Counter Terrorism Command.

He nodded. ‘Whatever you decide, I always want you to be safe.’

She stood up, walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’ll be safe, I promise you. The train’s a lot safer than that damned helicopter.’