Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Callum
It’s a bleak gray day in Wales, matching my mood.
I’m at Caernarfon Castle, the venue for my investiture ceremony tomorrow, for an official walk-through so I know what I’m doing in front of the live audience of four thousand people and the estimated TV audience of one billion.
Yeah, practicing is a good idea.
A fine dusting of rain settles on my face and the smell of brine invades my nostrils.
The wind whispers through the flagstones, and the fanciful part of me imagines it carries the echoes of ancient kings and battles long past. What advice would those ancient kings give me? It feels like I could use all the guidance I can get right now.
The Master of Ceremonies is talking, and I snap my attention back to him.
“When you arrive at the castle, the band will play ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales.’”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s a song?”
“Yes. It’s a song.”
I blink at Raymond, who is standing next to me. “There’s a song about me? How did I not know this?”
When I’m the Prince of Wales, God is asked to bless me. When I’m king, he will be asked to save me.
There must be meaning to be extracted from this somehow.
“‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’ was originally written in the mid-1800s to mark the marriage between Edward VII and Alexandra of Denmark,” Raymond informs me.
“I imagine it hit the Top 40 at the time,” I say. I don’t get even a glimmer of a smile from either Raymond or the Master of Ceremonies.
But I immediately store the fact I’ve got a song about me to tell Oliver later. My heart clenches.
That’s right.
I won’t be talking to Oliver tonight.
I miss him.
The last week has boiled down to that.
I miss him more than I thought it was possible to miss anyone.
We haven’t spoken since our argument at Buckingham Palace the day he called the referendum.
I was angry at him, of course. But now my anger has changed. Now I’m just devastated at the impossible situation we’re in.
I understand Oliver was doing his job. But that’s part of the problem. We will always have competing priorities that will sometimes pit us against each other.
That’s the main reason I haven’t contacted him. Because where do we go from here? I can’t see a way forward that won’t create more heartbreak for both of us.
Will I never kiss him, touch him again? The thought is too awful to bear.
I will see him tomorrow at the investiture ceremony. My stomach is in knots about seeing him again. I don’t know what I should say.
One thing I do know is that I will never stop loving him.
I drag my attention back to the Master of Ceremonies, who is telling me about how I’ll walk through the Lower Ward of the castle, through to the Chamberlain Tower, where I will wait for the Queen to command the Earl Marshal to direct the Garter King of Arms to summon me from the Chamberlain Tower.
“Then, you’ll come down here, and once you reach the dais, Her Majesty will pass you the sword, making you the Earl of Chester.
Then she’ll place the coronet on your head, and the gold ring on your finger, which symbolizes the unity between you and Wales.
Next, she’ll hand you the gold rod, which symbolizes temporal rule, and then the Queen will place the kingly mantle around your shoulders. ”
All the formalities and ceremony threaten to swamp me.
“I’m receiving a lot of gifts,” I say faintly.
“Yes, you are,” Raymond says with no hint of humor.
Once I’m back in my hotel, I try to soothe my nerves about tomorrow and distract myself from thoughts of Oliver by watching the recordings of the BBC coverage of Uncle Albert’s investiture.
It’s from the mid-eighties, and the coverage contains a palpable excitement around a young, handsome Albert becoming the newest Prince of Wales.
In the ceremony, the camera pans to his brothers, the three other princes, sitting in the audience, and there’s my seventeen-year-old father, already far more handsome than a teenager should ever be, looking mildly bored as he watches Albert take his formal vow.
As the fourth son, could he have ever imagined his son would one day be on the dais taking the ancient vows?
I doubt it.
There’s a knock on my door.
I have a brief surge of hope that it’s Amelia.
I know she’s staying in the same hotel, and I could do with a visit from my little sister right now.
Besides Oliver, Amelia is probably the next person on the planet I trust as a confidant.
But do I want to burden my little sister with my problems right now?
What advice would she give me? There’s no way to resolve the conflict between wanting Oliver and being the Prince of Wales.
I open the door.
But it’s not Amelia standing there.
Because I’ve just been watching footage of our father, it gives me a start to see Nicholas. He looks so much like our father that, for a brief moment, it hurts to see him.
“Nicholas. Come in.”
“I can’t stay for long,” he says.
“What’s up?” I ask as I stand back to let him in.
Nicholas looks anxious, tugging his sweater sleeves as he glances around my suite.
He opens his mouth, then hesitates before taking the plunge.
“Callum, are you sure you want to do this? No one will think less of you if you choose not to go through with the investiture.”
I stare at my younger brother.
He keeps talking, the words spilling out of him with reckless abandonment now that he’s uncorked the bottle.
“We’ve got a referendum coming up… Have you thought that maybe the public would find it more palatable if they’ve got a British Prince of Wales to vote for rather than one with an American accent? ”
My heart is in my throat.
“Do you think I should give up my place in succession?” I ask.
Nicholas meets my gaze. “I want what’s best for the country.”
“So do I,” I say.
My knees are weak. I take a few steps backward and sink onto the bed.
Nicholas is offering me a lifeline. And it’s so tempting.
If I step down in succession, I can be with Oliver. I won’t need to wait for the results of the referendum. I can just be with him without any issues. Spend every night with him with no need to hide.
The idea of walking away is so tempting. Leaving behind the endless scrutiny that comes with this role. Going back to being a normal person.
Cliff’s words from his interview echo in my head.
He never sticks at anything.
I swallow. Hard. I wanted to prove Cliff wrong. But is blindly sticking with something just to prove I can the right course of action? Is this role worth sacrificing my heart?
I can never be with Oliver if I’m the Prince of Wales. And the weight of that knowledge, of knowing I’m sacrificing the man I love, feels unbearable.
For a brief second, I imagine telling Oliver I’ve given up my place in succession. Seeing his smile. Knowing we can be together forever, with nothing standing in our way.
But do I trust that Oliver and I are for life? What happens if I give up my throne for him, only for us to break up a few months later?
I’d look like the ultimate fool. I know Oliver loves me, but ultimately, he’ll always love his job more than me. Recent events have proven that.
And I promised my grandmother I’d help her save the crown.
I stare at my handsome younger brother. The one who has been a prince since the day he was born.
He looks like a prince of England. He sounds like a prince of England.
He doesn’t have random coordination issues that threaten havoc and mayhem at every event.
He would be so much better at the pomp and pageantry part of being the Prince of Wales.
Even as I contemplate this, memories of some of the people I’ve met slide into my head. Amara from the hospital. Quinton from the Hedgehog Appreciation Society. The kids from the heart charity.
I’ve never before felt a sense of purpose in my life. I’d drifted through majors at college and then into my job at the call center.
These last few months have been different. I’ve finally found something I love to do. I’ve seen the difference I can make in people’s lives.
Do I truly believe Nicholas would do a better job than me at connecting with the people of the UK?
No. I don’t. He couldn’t do it better than me.
And that realization settles inside me.
Royalty throughout the centuries has had to make sacrifices.
And while it’s difficult to believe any of my ancestors have ever given up something or someone as precious as Oliver, I can’t help remembering my grandmother when I first arrived in London, having just learned of the betrayal of so many family members, still focusing solely on her duty as sovereign.
I look out the window at Caernarfon Castle, looming in the distance. A castle that has seen kings come and go, generations of people toiling in its shadow, history made and remade.
I glance back at Nicholas.
“I plan to fulfill my duty,” I tell my brother.