Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Callum
American Prince Plucks a Rose from the English Garden
Callum’s Rose: A Royal Romance Blossoms
Has Prince Callum Found His Rose Amidst the Thorns?
I shouldn’t be surprised that my date with Rose hits the front page of the tabloids. Or that it’s sent headline writers into a botanical metaphor frenzy.
It’s exactly what Raymond wanted.
Yet seeing the articles makes me feel like throwing up.
I’m already on edge, scrolling through all the news sites, trying to find traces of the emergency that dragged Oliver out of my bed a few hours ago. But it appears the most important headline in the country today is my date with Rose.
“Rose is very beautiful,” Nicholas says from the other side of the car, where he’s also scrolling through his phone. “Perfect choice for a future queen.”
“It was one date.” I rub between my eyebrows. “It’s a bit too early to send out wedding invitations.”
Nicholas leans in, his voice low. “You know, people would understand if you wanted to step down in succession, have the freedom to date whoever you wanted.”
I snap my head up. What is he saying? Is he just saying it generally? Or does he know about Oliver and me?
“But that would mean you’d have to be king. Do you want that?” My lips are almost numb as I force the words out of my mouth.
Nicholas shrugs. “Not really. But I’d do it if I had to.”
For a second, we just stare at each other.
A younger brother. How many times throughout history has the younger brother watched as his older brother got all the attention and glory just because of the randomness of birth order?
Nicholas seems to have taken the instructions of the palace officials seriously and has curbed his playboy ways since his promotion up the ranks of succession.
Which begs the question: would he be a better Prince of Wales than me?
I break our stare as the car slows down to pull into the Tower of London.
The Tower of London is an iconic landmark, but it’s not exactly a favorite place for royalty throughout history.
Henry VI was murdered here in 1471. In 1483, two princes, Edward and Richard, disappeared here, assumed to be murdered by their uncle, who then claimed the throne. Three queens of England, Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, and Lady Jane Grey, were all executed on the Tower Green.
But today, it isn’t about the grisly history of the Tower. Instead, it’s about the treasures the Tower holds securely for my family.
The crown jewels.
The exhibition showcasing the crown jewels has been closed for the past few months while it’s been refurbished, and tomorrow is the grand reopening, so today is a private tour for the royal family so we can see the collection.
Nicholas and I are ushered through the grounds of the Tower. We’ve just greeted Gran and Amelia when a tall, impeccably dressed man arrives.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Edward Anscombe, the resident governor of the Tower of London and Keeper of the Jewel House.”
“I bet that is a fun job title to give anyone who asks you at the pub,” I say.
Nicholas arches his eyebrow, but Edward gives a bellowing laugh.
“It’s definitely a mouthful,” he agrees. “Anyway, it’s my honor to show you the new exhibition today.”
“We are very much looking forward to it,” Gran replies.
Edward leads us to the main exhibit, where the most stunning pieces of the Royal Collection are showcased. The room is a glittering spectacle filled with every jewel imaginable.
The concentration of wealth makes my head spin.
"You’ll notice we’ve updated the displays with more interactive elements," Edward explains, gesturing to a touchscreen panel beside a particularly breathtaking tiara. "Visitors can now learn about the history and significance of each piece, as well as view close-up images and videos."
Gran nods in approval, her eyes scanning the room.
I can’t help but quiz Edward about the history of the crown jewels as we wander around the exhibits, and I learn a lot of interesting facts.
I didn’t realize Oliver Cromwell ordered the destruction of the old set of crown jewels when he came to power, so most of the current jewels were created after the monarchy was restored in the 1660s.
Edward also tells me how gemstones from the crown jewels were hidden inside a biscuit tin and buried under Windsor Castle during World War II.
We reach the exhibit containing St Edward’s crown, the intricate lattice of golden arches encrusted with four hundred and forty-four gemstones. It’s elegant enough to make any head look regal, even on a bad hair day.
“It’s very heavy,” Gran says to me.
I have to take her word for it. After all, she’s the only person alive who has ever worn it.
I stare at the glittering crown. One day it will be placed on my head, making me the king.
The thought makes me lightheaded.
Amelia sidles closer to me. “Did you know that neither Elizabeth I nor Queen Victoria, arguably the greatest monarchs in British history, were actually born to rule?”
I blink at her, taking time to process her words before I reply. “You’re right.”
She gives me a small smile, and I can’t help returning it. Is this my sister reminding me that even though I wasn’t born to rule, I can still become a good monarch?
I actually need to hear that today. I need to be reminded about other royals in history who have stepped into roles they weren’t prepared for and succeeded.
Elizabeth I was known as the Virgin Queen, as she chose not to marry, declaring herself married to England instead, despite the many rumors of affairs throughout her life.
It appears the romantic life of royals has always been fraught. I’m not breaking any new ground here on that front. Although from my knowledge of history, none of the past kings and queens have ever had an illicit relationship with the prime minister.
The official royal photographer turns up to take some pictures of us examining the crown jewels. I stand between Gran and Nicholas, smiling stiffly.
“Before we go, we need to check the ravens,” Gran says after we finish with the photographer.
I furrow my head. “Ravens?”
“Oh, don’t you know? There are resident ravens at the Tower because of the famous legend that if the ravens leave the Tower of London, the Tower will fall, and the kingdom with it.”
Nicholas arches an eyebrow at me. “So it’s definitely in your best interests to ensure they’re safe.”
“I think it’s in all our best interests,” I say.
We descend the stairs of the Tower housing the crown jewels. At the bottom, the Ravenmaster bustles over, dressed in a black suit with red trimmings and a hat.
“Your Majesty, a pleasure to see you as always,” he says, bowing. Then he bows to Nicholas, Amelia, and me.
“I was just telling Prince Callum about the legend behind the ravens in the Tower,” Gran says.
He turns to me, his beefy face lighting up with a smile. “It’s believed Charles II was the monarch who was warned of the dire consequences of ravens leaving the Tower. Since then, ravens have always been in residence.
“We currently have seven resident birds in the Tower. Here’s John now.”
A large, glossy black raven waddles over to us, head held high with regal confidence.
John tilts his head, eyeing me with a mix of curiosity and judgment.
"We’re having to warn visitors about John as he’s developed a fondness for shiny trinkets.”
I think of the crown jewel display we’ve just looked at.
“Just like some of our ancestors,” I say.
We watch John as he flies up to the tree above us.
“Did you know a flock of ravens is called an unkindness or a conspiracy?” the Ravenmaster asks.
“Really? A conspiracy? That seems very fitting for a flock of ravens in the Tower of London,” I say, looking up at John, who perches on a branch directly above me.
Unfortunately, he takes that moment to demonstrate that his digestive system works impeccably.
I don’t move fast enough, so my shoulder receives a direct hit.
Nicholas can’t hide his smirk and even Amelia appears to be covering up a smile while the Ravenmaster stammers his apologies. He quickly retreats to find me a cloth to clean up.
“I’ve told you before,” Gran says to me in a low voice. “Never trust birds.”
There are dark shadows under Oliver’s eyes when he calls me that night.
“You look tired,” I say.
“It’s been a long day,” Oliver replies.
A day that began with us together in my bed but has ended with me in Buckingham Palace and him at 10 Downing Street. Like usual.
“Is everything okay at the embassy?” I ask.
The news broke mid-morning that our embassy in Nigeria had been attacked and a counterstrike was launched to save the hostages. It was fairly obvious that was the emergency Oliver had to leave me for this morning.
The only good thing about it was it nudged my date with Rose off the front page.
It was another reminder of the stark contrast between our jobs.
I’d made the news because I’d eaten dinner with an attractive woman. Oliver had made the news because he’d had to make life-or-death decisions to save the citizens of this country.
“Everything is fine now.” Oliver heaves a deep breath. But he still looks stressed. Panic spreads through my body.
“What’s wrong?”
“Toby knows about us.”
The thump-thump of my heart turns into a rapid staccato. “How did he find out?”
“He guessed. There was a discussion about the security of your investiture.” Oliver runs his hands through his hair. “My reaction to the threats against you was pretty telling.”
“Threats against me?” I croak.
Frown lines deepen Oliver’s face. “Hasn’t anyone discussed the latest intelligence with you?”
“Um…not really. Is it the Welsh nationalists?”
“Probably. But don’t worry. The Metropolitan Police are doing everything to keep you safe. All the guests will have to go through extra security screenings.”
I gulp. It’s something I don’t like to dwell on, the ever-present threat to my safety that comes with this role.
People who hate me just for what I am, what I represent.
I veer back to another uncomfortable topic.
“So, what did Toby say when he found out about us?”