Chapter Text
Celia Kim-Davies was well aware that she wasn’t going to win any Pulitzers any time soon, thank you, but she wasn’t about to be bitter about it; there were worse beats than Buckingham Palace. Certainly she wasn’t rescuing children from hurricanes or pulling diplomats out of burning Jeeps as she had fantasized in j-school, and corporate conspiracies she could blow open with her intrepid reporting were tragically few on the ground at Windsor Castle. But she wasn’t unemployed, or worse, making lists for Buzzfeed. Her old classmates could make remarks all they liked, but none of them had a prince of England who knew them by name.
And what a prince of England, honestly; Prince William, Duke of Avondale, had two brothers, both older and closer to the throne, but he was better-known to the general populace as The Hot One. As in,
"This story had better be good, it's past deadline already—"
"—Don't you worry, boss, it's on the hot one."
All three of the princes had received their fair bit of attention in younger days, but as the awkward years of young adulthood faded, it had become more and more apparent that neither George, Duke of Gloucester, nor Louis, Duke of Clarence, was anything more than ordinary-looking except to the eyes of the most partial of the royal-watchers. William was another matter. Celia had once written out the words “stupidly handsome” and gotten it into print somehow; apparently, her editors had agreed. He was, in addition to this, almost comically gallant, as if he was a dragon-prince of old. While his brothers spent their early twenties whirling in and out of exclusive London nightclubs, a royal custom that was becoming as much a new tradition as Eton, William had made straight for Sandhurst, where he had completed his officer training with high honors. For once Celia hadn't been able to detect any trace of puffery in the press release; military instructors with a hard reputation spoke spontaneously in praise of him, and one military aide she had collared had confessed, off the record, that their primary sense of concern with Prince William was his excess of courage; they were not certain that the sense of self-preservation they would ordinarily depend on seeing, in a royal, was entirely intact. He'd even deployed for a while to fly helicopters—sexy, safe, and traditional, a royal's wet dream—and come home covered in glory, only to then, quietly, join Her Majesty's Coastguard.
The move had made a stir at the time. William had already seen active duty, which was more than most royals could aspire to. No one would have been surprised to see him come back to London to take up family duties, become the patron of a few charities, show up to upper-class parties, meet some stunning girl to marry, and have beautiful babies with her. But—the Coastguard? Really? Really?
No one knew why the royal family had allowed it, and then word came unofficially from the Clarence House PR team, over beers, that no, no one in the palace had any idea what he had been thinking, and certainly no one had approved. The Prince of Wales was supposedly furious over it. Formally, Prince William was lauded on a brave and important career choice, but no one really believed it, not even the British public, which would believe anything.
William’s unexpected move inspired a week or so of puzzled congratulations and mockery in the redtops, none of whom seemed to know what to make of it. Pitiful headlines like OUR WATERY DEFENDER and A ROYAL...COASTGUARD?? proliferated. A few obligatory pictures of his training were published, but frankly, the Coastguard was not very heroic, or even interesting. At least if William had joined the firefighters they might have gotten some good puns out of it. His uniform wasn’t sexy, the training was boring, and his shifts usually involved being on a boat for days on end, far from any long-lens cameras. In the meantime, Louis had begun dating a South American bikini model, and the outraged gasps of old-guard English nobility nearly blew down Parliament. The media, including Celia, moved on.
Then, a year later, well after the model had stormed back home to Sao Paulo, after a minor royal cousin started a fistfight in Ibiza, after a pap shot of George smoking a cigarette had inspired weeks of frenzied speculation over whether it might have contained, the horror, marijuana, a yacht full of drunk celebrities bound for the Mediterranean collided with a paparazzi boat just off the Channel. The yacht immediately began to flounder; the paparazzi, predictably, were just fine. The Coastguard were called in, and pictures of Prince William personally pulling Kate Beckinsale out of the water were everywhere.
That was a glorious time to be media. Anyone who had gotten even slightly damp wanted to be interviewed. Redtops ran pictures of the Hadid sisters looking at William adoringly while he handed them blankets with headlines like WET FOR WILLIAM!! STUNNING ROYAL RESCUE AT SEA while Celia’s own employer, a weekly mag and therefore more sedate, contented itself with no less than forty-six consecutive pages of coverage from every conceivable angle, gushingly detailed interviews, printed in full, with every celebrity they could get their hands on, and photographs that were lovingly edited to best capture the effect of the Coastguard rescue ship’s floodlights on William’s jawline. Best of all, Celia got the lead byline.
The story was like the second coming of Christ. Louis seized advantage of the distraction to run away to an elephant sanctuary in Thailand with his latest girlfriend. George struggled in vain to promote his new charity. No one had time for either of them. As far as the public was concerned, there was only one story in the entirety of the British Isles.
William only issued one statement, tersely phrased, through Clarence House, insisting that he had only done as much as any one of his crewmates had, and asking for privacy. It was thoroughly ignored. The quiet of his past year was stripped away. The location of the modest flat he lived in at Dover when not on duty was leaked, and there were mobs of young women and men outside the door at all hours. So many private boats took to cruising around the Operations Centre at Dover that any rescue operation, if needed, would certainly have been impossible. William was obliged to make it publicly known that he was taking a leave of absence, and was spotted entering Westminster the next day.
Celia, watching it happen, couldn’t be completely happy over her personal fortune. She liked William, whom she had known since he was a teenager and she was a star struck intern not much older. Unlike his brothers, who had gone through phases both snappish and snobbish, William had always been unfailingly kind to her. She felt bad for him; but then, that was the life of a royal. He could have anything he wanted in the world, but the price of that was privacy.
Will was fairly certain that he did not need a new bodyguard for the occasion, but he had not the energy to argue with the Princess of Wales over it; he was fresh from Dover, where despite the many posted signs a family of tourists had gotten stuck in the sucking mud brought on by the incessant rain. Mud rescues were always undignified and exhausting, and he was certain that the mother of the family had gotten off a picture of him; a fine thing to be thinking about with her daughters trapped up to their thighs and her husband nearly passed out with fatigue. So Will had tiredly agreed to the proceedings without looking further into them.
His mother had been excessively careful of him, Will felt, ever since the incident at Dover two years ago. But feeling too aware of the fragile state of his career to want to risk further angering his father, he had chosen not to take issue. In any case, his mother could not have planned enough protection to satisfy Randle, the head of the security team, who often spoke as though he fully expected a war to break out at George’s wedding.
“A double barrier will line the parade route,” he said, going through the plan again. “Officers on foot will be stationed every fifteen feet for crowd control, and officers on horseback will stay with the cars at all times. In the event that a spectator should break through the barriers—highly unlikely, but possible—you must stay calm. Do not leave the vehicle at all. The sharpshooters will have orders to shoot to kill.”
“Why not just have Will up on the roofs, then?” said Louis, yawning. “I’m sure he can keep us all from harm. Or better yet, George can get hitched at a registrar’s somewhere, and we can stay home, safe as houses.”
Their mother turned around on her seat to give him an expressive look.
“We are very honored to have Mr. Randle take our safety into his hands,” she said, in a deceptively mild voice. “Do go on, sir.”
Randle, long used to various shows of royal petulance, was unperturbed. “Your personal protection officer will attempt to stay as unobtrusive as possible during the parade route and the ceremony. If there should be any disruption—such as an attack or sudden natural disaster—”
“A tsunami,” Louis suggested. “Right in central London—”
“—Your personal protection officer will immediately take you to one of several pre-arranged safe houses or safe rooms along the route or in Westminster Abbey. Out of concern for the safety of the public, it is vital to get the royal family out of danger; I truly—" he looked directly at Will. "—truly cannot emphasize how strongly I discourage heroics."
Will did not think that he needed the reminder, later; he felt very opposite of heroic in the military uniform he wore, which he was aware of not having really earned. He smiled anyway, as their Bentley passed through the frantically waving crowds: any other expression was sure to be photographed and analyzed to death, and in any case it was his brother’s wedding-day, a joyous occasion in itself.
“Nervous?” he asked lightly.
“God yes,” said George at once. “I’m convinced that Elizabeth will realize any moment what a colossal mistake she’s making. What woman in her senses would want to be Queen of the United Kingdom?”
“Mother,” said Louis immediately.
“Mother’s family is considerably older than House Windsor,” said George. “I’m fairly certain the Laurences still think of us as those uppity Germans. Any rate, she’s more prepared for Grandmother’s retirement than Father is, and he was practicing his coronation speech in the womb. Elizabeth’s family was only raised after the second World War.”
“Snob,” said Louis. “She’ll be fine. Or, worst case, she’ll leave you at the altar and you can marry one of the ten thousand screaming fangirls outside, there’ll be volunteers by the ton.”
“I haven’t had fangirls since Will hit puberty,” said George dryly. “Except girls desperate to be Queen, and like I said, no woman of sense.”
He sighed a little, but despite that his face retained an inner glow of happiness; against the floor of the limo his foot tapped, despite decades of ingrained etiquette lessons, and Will was sure that it was from excitement and not anxiety.
“I must tell you, I think very highly of Elizabeth,” said Will. “I’m certain the two of you will be happy.”
“Oh, I should hope so,” said George. “Since I’m likely to be the only married man in the family for some time.”
“I’d follow you in a heartbeat if I thought Grandmother would approve of any of my choices,” said Louis. “I haven’t dared tell her about the girl I’m seeing now.”
“I don’t know what you’re afraid of; you’re the spare. You won’t have to be like me and spend years proving that Elizabeth is sufficiently regal.”
“In that case, maybe Will is the one who’ll be celebrating next; he’s the spare of the spare, and regal enough for two, he can marry whomever he likes.”
Will was silent. He knew full well that was not the case. In the limo his brothers continued to bicker comfortably; outside of it, the noise of the crowd rose to a delirious pitch. The car drove without pausing through the security cordon and rolled smoothly to a halt before the steps of Westminster Abbey. George went white.
“Who has the ring,” he blurted out suddenly, as if he had only just remembered it. He looked at Louis, who didn’t answer but only rambled on about balls and chains, a vulgar Americanism he must have picked up from his actor friends.
“I have the ring,” said Will softly. George went limp with relief. “Everything else will follow. Go on, now.”
The car door opened, and George stepped out to riotous cheers, a smile falling easily back on his face. Louis followed, waving to the crowd, and then it was William’s turn. The driver came around to the other side of the car. The door opened. For the first time, Will noticed the driver.
An angular face, so lean that Will could see the fine cheekbones pressing against skin, as if everything not strictly necessary for life had been carved out of him and discarded. Not a hard face, for all that. The dark eyes that looked back at him from beneath his chauffeur's cap were warmly amused, oddly captivating. No sooner had he met them did Will realize that he had been staring. He turned away smoothly, raising a hand to the cheering crowd, and followed his brothers into the church where his forefathers, kings of the past, had been buried and crowned.
He felt jittery and on edge throughout the ceremony, as if the groom's nerves had been transmitted over to him. He did not show it however; Will had been carefully trained since childhood for events such as these. Even Louis was standing tin-soldier still and proper beside him.
From his place behind George’s shoulder he could see the bride's face, beaming full of happiness as if love alone could recompense for what she was giving up. Above them, carvings of the long-gone dragons guarded the holy nave of Westminster Abbey and the crypts below. Will tried to imagine himself in George’s place, looking into the face of a woman he loved, and failed.
It was in some sense his duty to marry and have children. He had known that for so long that he could not remember having learned it; it was something he had absorbed through the skin, like the laws of primogeniture. If the crown did not come to George or his children, it would come to Louis, and if not to Louis, then to Will, and he would need to produce heirs against that unlikely event. But Will hoped, fervently, that it would not come to that.
If he had been born the son of a lesser father, he would have been married to Edith already. He had known she was the only woman he could marry since he was fourteen years old. But although the daughter of an earl in her own right, she had not wanted to enter the royal family; had not wanted to endure the constant scrutiny of her life, had not wanted to give up the free choice of her friends and acquaintances. He had proposed; she had rejected.
The ceremony went on. The ring was produced without difficulty, the veil was lifted, the bride kissed. Doves flew from the rooftops. Bells were ringing across London, Will had been told, and across the Commonwealth as well. Husband and wife were handed into a horse-drawn carriage. News cameras gleamed like eyes. They were live on a hundred million screens. Will had been raised to the spotlight, trained from childhood to wear attention as easily as a favorite coat; to accept adulation graciously, take criticism lightly, and always, always, put the public first. Crowds had screamed his name when he was still a child. People he had never met fought to bow over his hand. Everything, as his father liked to point out, had been given to him; but still he would have traded all of that to be on patrol at midnight in the English Channel, the salt wind playing in his hair, and the white cliffs of Dover rising behind him.
The bodyguard had been as unobtrusive as promised, and as the car took Will and Louis to Buckingham Palace for the wedding luncheon, Will was beginning to wonder if he would ever make an appearance.
“Your security will probably be ex-Israeli Special Forces, or something like,” Louis was complaining. “Meanwhile I’m still stuck with Mark who used to be with the Leeds police force. Mother really does have favorites, doesn’t she? Then again, I suppose no one is trying to steal my pants.”
“I believe you give yours away,” said Will, amused.
“Oh, a hit! Did you get a sense of humor from the Coastguard? Next you’ll be learning how to relax.”
“I like my work,” said Will, answering the question that Louis, in typical fashion, had not asked direct. “It isn’t the most glamourous of duties, perhaps, but it is honest.”
“That’s a criticism of me, I suppose,” said Louis with a sigh. “You do know that Father wants you to resign?”
“He’s asked me, several times,” said Will. “I have no plans on quitting my post, however.”
“I think he’s a bit more serious this time. You should be careful. He says it’s a disgrace and an embarrassment—he might even stoop to putting something in the papers.” Louis shook his head. “When I’m in the family and you’re somehow the disappointment, something has clearly gone wrong. Well, maybe your new security can protect you.”
“From any other Prince of Wales, perhaps,” said Will. “From Father—I doubt it very much.”
"Mother wants you to resign too, you know," said Louis, after a pause. "Ever since that incident two years ago—"
"I know," said Will.
The car pulled through the gates and came to a stop. The driver came around again and pulled the door open. Will followed Louis out, determined to walk past the driver without looking, but the driver instead fell into step beside him.
“A beautiful wedding,” said the driver, in an accent to match any of Will’s uncles for old-fashioned plumminess. "Shall we soon have to congratulate your family on another, then?"
Will could not help but stare, then, but for quite a different reason.
"I beg your pardon," he said with astonishment. "Were you listening to every word we said?"
"I could hardly avoid it."
Will would have liked to argue this point, but in truth he had no idea: none of the palace drivers had ever commented on his private conversations before. Indeed it had never occurred to him that they would; a fresh worry to his mind.
"I do not think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance," he said instead.
"Tenzing Tharkay," he said. "Not former Israeli special forces, I'm afraid, but I hope that my resume as a long-range reconnaissance scout in the war in Afghanistan and a hand-to-hand combat instructor for the British Armed Forces will prove sufficient."
A pause.
"You are my new personal protection officer."
"I am indeed." He made a short, ironic bow, as if Will was a prince from a time when they had commanded true fealty, with troops of knights and a dragon at his command. "I am given to understand that you ran off your last few."
"I can promise that I did no such thing," said Will, stretching his legs to catch his brother up. "The conditions of the post had not been sufficiently explained to them; once they were, they resigned."
Tharkay, keeping up with him without difficulty, raised an eyebrow.
"And what are the conditions of the post?"
Will waited until the guards at the entrance had announced him, and the grand foyer full of well-wishers safely navigated, before answering.
"The men previously in your position, Mr. Tharkay, had been falsely informed that I meant to immediately return to London and the royal household at Clarence House, which would, I imagine, have greatly eased the securement of my personal protection. My circumstances at Dover, however, were beyond what any person in their position could reasonably have been expected to resolve. I was happy to provide an excellent reference to their future employers."
"I assume you mean that you ignored their good advice, and they did not care to be blamed when you inevitably came to harm."
Will felt his mouth tightening into a severe line, a tell that his media tutors had tried and failed to train out of him.
"Their suggestions were incompatible with my duties as a member of Her Majesty's Coastguard,” said Will.
“Ah, now I understand fully. No one could have expected you to neglect your duty.”
Will looked at him sharply. He was certain there had been mockery in the words, familiar to him after a lifetime of exposure to journalists and the English aristocracy, but he could not see it in Tharkay’s face, save perhaps a certain glint in the eye, which could have meant anything.
“I think you are aware, Mr. Tharkay, that neglecting my duty is exactly what many people do expect from me. I do not know what the Prince and Princess of Wales have told you—”
“Tell me,” said Tharkay, breaking in. “Do you always refer to your family members in such a charming way? The so-called Princess of Wales introduced herself to me only as your mother, and referred to you by name, not as the Duke of Avondale.”
“How I speak of, and to, my own family is none of your business, Mr. Tharkay, and never will be,” said Will, very coldly. Unwillingly he thought of the tabloids, although he hated to be so suspicious of a veteran of Britain’s wars, but it was the sort of manufactured family quarrel that they would have leapt to exploit.
“Quite right,” said Tharkay, a little wry smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “Clearly I overstepped by asking such a personal question. That has put me in my place, I suppose.”
Another headline, potentially—that Prince William had been abusive towards his bodyguard—but one that he thought the palace staff could more easily bury. There was something terribly calculating in the thought, and Will was bitterly aware that he had never used to be so suspicious of every stranger.
“I’m grateful you have chosen to make yourself known to me,” said Will, forbearing to mention the wholly unnecessary bit of dramatics with which he had chosen to do it. “Whatever you may have heard of me, I do not intend to make your business more difficult. I hope you and I will get on cordially.”
“I imagine that is up to you,” said Tharkay thoughtfully. “But thank you for your concern.”
“You are very welcome,” said Will between his teeth, and showed his back to him before he could make further show of temper. Tharkay’s voice stopped him.
“What was the incident two years ago?”
Will turned.
“I’m certain you’ve already been told,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm.
“Perhaps,” said Tharkay. His face revealed nothing. Will wished he could stop looking at it. “It might, however, be helpful for me to hear it afresh.”
Will didn’t know why he was even answering him. He said,
“Two years ago, the media took a sudden interest in my work with the Coastguard station in Dover. I found it necessary to take a break from my duties and return to London. During my absence, a number of persons unknown attempted to escalate matters. They had found my flat and were able to climb up the outer wall. They broke in through the window.”
His personal protection at the time, such as it was, had come back to London with him. The first person to notice the intrusion had been a photographer for one of the dailies. Will had learned of it when the Clarence House PR team, with grave sympathy, sat him down for a media briefing.
He had gone back to the flat only once, to help palace aides collect his things. There wasn’t very much to collect. The intruders had done a thorough job scavenging the place.
“Did they take anything of value?” asked Tharkay, in a tone of professional interest.
He had had a framed picture of his crewmates at Dover station hanging on his wall: that had disappeared, leaving only the nail it hung from. Jane had given him a dog-eared copy of West with the Night that he would now never be able to return. His laundry hamper had been carried away wholesale, dirty clothes distributed to God-knew-where, and his bedsheets were stripped bare. The necklace he had given Edith, and that she had returned to him, had been coiled within his bedside drawer and taken along with everything else.
“No,” said Will. “I had nothing of value to take.”