I’m transfixed as they move, marching in time, one man at each of the corners—reverently escorting the remains toward the waiting hearse. Three of the soldiers stay behind, while one of them walks through the door at the far end of the waiting room we now occupy.
It’s only then that I turn my head and see a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a wrinkled beige coat, holding the hand of the small boy beside her. He seems to be about ten years old. The soldier bends his head, speaking softly, handing the woman a manila envelope.
Henry watches for a moment, and then he’s walking toward them. I follow behind.
The soldier’s eyes flare when he sees him, immediately going stiff with a salute. Henry pauses a few feet away, snapping a salute in return. And then the soldier bows low and Henry nods. The soldier straightens up, gives some final words to the woman, and tells her they’ll wait for her at the car until she’s ready.
The woman watches him walk away, bringing a tissue to her nose. And it’s only then that she notices Henry—realizes who he is.
“Oh, Your Highness.” She bows, and the boy beside her mimics the motion. “Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”
“It’s an unannounced trip. Ms. . . .?”
“Campbell. Mrs. Margery Campbell.” She strokes the boy’s hair. “And this is Louis.”
“Mrs. Campbell. Hello, Louis.”
“Hello, Prince Henry,” the boy says without smiling.
“I want to offer my condolences for your loss.”
Mrs. Campbell dabs at her eyes with the tissue. “Thank you.” She gazes lovingly at the casket through the window. “That’s my oldest, Charlie.”
“Charlie Campbell,” Henry says, like he’s committing the name to memory.
“That’s right. Charlie’s captain told me that it was an ambush that took him, said he was very brave. He drew the fire on himself so the other boys could take cover.”
“A heroic act that I’m sure those boys will never forget,” Henry offers.
Mrs. Campbell nods. “He was always a good lad. Protective. And now he’s in heaven with his da, watching over us all.”
I lean down toward Louis. “I bet Charlie loved having you for a little brother.”
The boy sniffs and nods. “He taught me how to fly-fish. I’ve been practicing and I’m real good at it now.”
I nod, just barely able to hold back my tears. “And whenever you fish, you’ll think of him and so he’ll always be with you.”
Louis nods again.
Henry takes his wallet from his pocket and hands Mrs. Campbell his card. “If there’s anything I can do for you—anything at all—I want you to call my office. Please.”
She takes the card, smiling with wet eyes. “I will, thank you.” Then she gazes up at Henry, contemplatively. “You’ve grown into such a fine young man, Prince Henry. Princess Calista would be so proud.”
Henry looks down. “I hope so,” he says, his voice soft and rough.
“Oh, I’m sure of it. We mums know these things. She would be as proud of you as I . . .” Her voice drifts off as she turns to gaze at the flag-draped casket. And her face crumples. “Oh my boy . . . my poor, sweet Charlie . . .”
She covers her face, sobbing into her hands, and the tears leak through her fingers.
Without hesitating, Henry pulls her into his arms and presses her head to his chest.
It’s a break in protocol—common citizens aren’t supposed to hug royalty—but Henry doesn’t seem to care.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, smoothing her hair down. “I’m so, so sorry.”
When little Louis’s face twists, I hug him to me, soothing him with soft, rambling words that I can only hope will bring him comfort.
And we stay just like that for a time, until the tears calm and deep breaths are taken. Henry leaves Mrs. Campbell with a squeeze of her hands and a reminder to call his office if she needs anything. Then together, we rejoin our waiting group.
“That was television gold!” Vanessa Steele practically bounces in her stilettoes. “When that footage airs—the dashing prince comforting the grieving mother—it’ll be the biggest cross-continental panty drop the world has ever seen.”
At first Henry looks ill, and then . . . angry.
“You filmed that?”
“Of course we filmed it. I told you, everything is copy—and that was fucking phenomenal. Real emotion; you can’t stage that kind of thing.”
Henry’s finger lashes out, pointing toward the exiting hearse. “That boy died for his country. For my country. He gave his life protecting the ground beneath your feet.”