Spare (58 page)

They were touched. But a bit guilty.

I assured them:
No one will miss ’em.

Words that seemed double-edged.

Late in the day, as we crawled closer to a final draft, the staffers began to feel anxious. They worried aloud if their involvement would be discovered. If so, what would it mean for their jobs? But mostly they were excited. They felt
that they were on the side of right; both had read every word of abuse in the press and on social media, going back months and months.

At six
p.m.
it was done. We gathered around the laptop, read the draft one last time. One staffer messaged the private secretaries of Granny, Pa and Willy, told them what was coming. Willy’s guy replied immediately:
This is going to go nuclear.

I knew, of course, that many Britons would be shocked, and saddened, which made my stomach churn. But in due course, once they knew the truth, I felt confident they’d understand.

One of the staffers said:
Are we doing this?

Meg and I both said:

Yes. There’s no other choice.

We sent the statement to our social media person. Within a minute there it was, live, on our Instagram page, the only platform available to us. We all hugged, wiped our eyes, and quickly gathered our things.

Meg and I walked out of the Palace and jumped into our car. As we sped towards Frogmore the news was already on the radio. Every channel. We picked one. Magic FM. Meg’s favorite. We listened to the presenter work himself into a very British lather. We held hands and shared a smile with our bodyguards in the front seat. Then we all gazed silently out of the windows.

Days later there
was a meeting at Sandringham. I don’t remember who called it the Sandringham Summit. Someone in the press, I suspect.

On my way there I got a text from Marko about a story in
The Times
.

Willy was declaring that he and I were now “separate entities.”

“I’ve put my arm around my brother all our lives and I can’t do that anymore,” he said.

Meg had gone back to Canada to be with Archie, so I was on my own for this summit. I got there early, hoping to have a quick chat with Granny. She was sitting on a bench before the fireplace and I sat down beside her. I saw the Wasp react with alarm. He went buzzing off and moments later returned with Pa, who sat beside me. Immediately after him came Willy, who looked at me
as if he planned to murder me.
Hello, Harold.
He sat across from me. Separate entities indeed.

When all participants had arrived, we shifted to a long conference table, with Granny at the head. Before each chair was a royal notepad and pencil.

The Bee and the Wasp conducted a quick summary of where we were. The subject of the press came up pretty quickly. I referenced their cruel and criminal behavior, but said they’d had a ton of help. This family had enabled the papers by looking the other way, or by actively courting them, and some of the staff had worked directly with the press, briefing them, planting stories, occasionally rewarding and fêting them. The press was a big part of why we’d come to this crisis—their business model demanded that we be in constant conflict—but they weren’t the only culprits.

I looked at Willy. This was his moment to jump in, echo what I was saying, talk about his maddening experiences with Pa and Camilla. Instead he complained about a story in the morning papers suggesting that he was the reason we were leaving.

I’m now being accused of bullying you and Meg out of the family!

I wanted to say: We had nothing to do with that story…but imagine how you might feel if we
had
leaked it. Then you’ll know how Meg and I have felt the last three years.

The private secretaries began to address Granny about the Five Options.

Your Majesty, you’ve seen the Five Options.

Yes, she said.

We all had. They’d been emailed to us, five different ways of proceeding. Option 1 was continuance of the status quo: Meg and I don’t leave, everyone tries to go back to normal. Option 5 was full severance, no royal role, no working for Granny, and total loss of security.

Option 3 was somewhere in between. A compromise. Closest to what we’d originally proposed.

I told everyone assembled that, above all, I was desperate to keep security. That was what worried me most, my family’s physical safety. I wanted to prevent a repeat of history, another untimely death like the one that had rocked this family to its core twenty-three years earlier, and from which we were still trying to recover.

I’d consulted with several Palace veterans, people who knew the inner workings of the monarchy and its history and they all said Option 3 was best for all parties. Meg and I living elsewhere part of the year, continuing our
work, retaining security, returning to Britain for charities, ceremonies, events. Sensible solution, these Palace veterans said. And eminently doable.

But the family, of course, pushed me to take Option 1. Barring that, they would only accept Option 5.

We discussed the Five Options for nearly an hour. At last the Bee got up and went around the table, handing out a draft of a statement the Palace would soon be releasing. Announcing implementation of Option 5.

Wait
.
I’m confused. You’ve already drafted a statement? Before any discussion? Announcing Option 5? In other words, the fix was in, this whole time? This summit was just for show?

No answer.

I asked if there were drafts of other statements. Announcing the other options.

Oh yes, of course, the Bee assured me.

Can I see them?

Alas—his printer had gone on the blink, he said. The odds! At the very moment he was about to print out those other drafts!

I started laughing.
Is this some kind of joke?

Everyone was staring away or down at their shoes.

I turned to Granny:
Do you mind if I take a moment, get some air?

Of course!

I left the room. I walked into a big hall and ran into Lady Susan, who’d worked for Granny for years, and Mr. R, my former upstairs neighbor in the badger sett. They could see I was upset and they asked if there was anything they could do for me. I smiled and said, No, thank you, then went back into the room.

There was some discussion at this point of Option 3. Or was it Option 2? It was all starting to give me a headache. They were wearing me down. I didn’t bloody care which option we adopted, so long as security remained in place. I pleaded for continuation of the same armed police protection I’d had, and needed, since birth. I’d never been allowed to go anywhere without three armed bodyguards, even when I was supposedly the most popular member of the family, and now I was the target, along with my wife and son, of unprecedented hate—and the leading proposal under discussion called for total abandonment?

Madness.

I offered to defray the cost of security out of my own pocket. I wasn’t sure how I’d do that, but I’d find a way.

I made one last pitch:
Look
.
Please. Meg and I don’t care about perks, we care about working, serving—and staying alive.

This seemed simple and persuasive. All the heads around the table went up and down.

As the meeting came to a close there was a basic, general agreement. The many fine, granular details of this hybrid arrangement would be sorted out over a twelve-month transitional period, during which we’d continue to have security.

Granny rose. We all rose. She walked out.

For me there was one more piece of unfinished business. I went off to find the office of the Bee. Luckily, I ran into the Queen’s friendliest page, who’d always liked me. I asked for directions; he said he’d take me himself. He led me through the kitchen, up some back stairs, down a narrow corridor.

Just that way, he said, pointing.

A few steps later I came upon a huge printer, churning out documents. The Bee’s assistant swung into view.

Hello!

I pointed at the printer and said:
This seems to be working fine?

Yes, Your Royal Highness!

Not broken?

That thing? It’s indestructible, sir!

I asked about the printer in the Bee’s office.
That one work too?

Oh, yes, sir! Did you need to print something out?

No, thank you.

I went farther down the corridor, through a door. Everything suddenly looked familiar. Then I remembered. This was the corridor where I’d slept that Christmas after returning from the South Pole. And now along came the Bee. Head on. He saw me and looked extremely sheepish…for a bee. He could tell what I was up to. He heard the printer whirring away. He knew he was busted.
Oh, sir, please, sir, don’t worry about that, it’s really not important.

Isn’t it?

I walked away from him, went downstairs. Someone suggested that before I left I should step outside with Willy. Cool our heads.

All right.

We went up and down the yew hedges. The day was freezing. I was wearing only a light jacket, and Willy was in a jumper, so both of us were shivering.

I was struck again by the beauty of it all. As in the state room, I felt as if I’d
never seen a palace before. These gardens, I thought, they’re paradise. Why can’t we just enjoy them?

I was braced for a lecture. It didn’t come. Willy was subdued. He wanted to listen. For the first time in a long time my brother heard me out, and I was so grateful.

I told him about one past staff member sabotaging Meg. Plotting against her. I told him about one current staff member, whose close friend was taking payments for leaking private stuff to the press about Meg and me. My sources on this were above reproach, including several journalists and barristers. Plus, I’d made a visit to New Scotland Yard.

Willy frowned. He and Kate had their own suspicions. He’d look into it.

We agreed to keep talking.

I jumped into the
car and was immediately told that a strongly worded denial had been put out by the Palace, squashing that morning’s bullying story. The denial was signed by none other than…me. And Willy. My name attached by faceless others to words I’d never even seen—let alone approved? I was stunned.

I went back to Frogmore. From there, remotely, over the next few days, I took part in the drafting of a final statement, which went out January 18, 2020.

The Palace announced that The Duke and Duchess of Sussex had agreed to “step back,” that we’d no longer “formally” represent the Queen, that our HRH titles would be in “abeyance” during this transitional year—and that we’d offered to reimburse the Sovereign Grant for refurbishments to Frogmore Cottage.

A firm “no comment” on the status of our security.

I flew back to Vancouver. Delicious reunion with Meg, Archie and the dogs. And yet, for a few days, I didn’t feel fully back. Part of me was still in Britain. Still at Sandringham. I spent hours glued to my phone, and the internet, monitoring the fallout. The ire directed at us by the papers and the trolls was alarming.

“Make no mistake, it’s an insult,” cried the
Daily Mail
, which convened a “Fleet Street jury” to consider our “crimes.” Among them was the Queen’s ex–press secretary, who concluded, with his fellow jurors, that we should hereafter “expect no mercy.”

I shook my head. No mercy. The language of war?

Clearly this was more than simple anger. These men and women saw me as an existential threat. If our leaving posed a threat to the monarchy, as some were saying, then it posed a threat to all those covering the monarchy for a living.

Hence, we had to be destroyed.

One of this lot, who’d written a book about me and thus provably depended on me to pay her rent, went on live TV to explain confidently that Meg and I had departed from Britain without so much as a by-your-leave to Granny. We’d discussed it with no one, she said, not even Pa. She announced these falsehoods with such unfaltering certainty that even I was tempted to believe her, and thus her version of events quickly became “the truth” in many circles.
Harry blindsided the Queen!
That was the narrative that took hold. I could feel it oozing into history books, and I could imagine boys and girls at Ludgrove, decades hence, having that hogwash rammed down their throats.

I sat up late, brooding on it all, going over the progression of events and asking myself: What’s the matter with these people? What makes them like this?

Is it all just about the money?

Isn’t it always? All my life I’ve heard people saying the monarchy was expensive, anachronistic, and Meg and I were now served up as proof. Our wedding was cited as Exhibit A. It cost millions, and thereafter we’d up and left. Ingrates.

But the family paid for the actual wedding, and a huge portion of the remaining cost was for security, much of which was made necessary by the press stirring up racism and class resentment. And the security experts themselves told us the snipers and sniffer dogs weren’t just for us: they were to prevent a shooter from strafing the crowds on the Long Walk, or a suicide bomber blowing up the parade route.

Maybe money sits at the heart of every controversy about monarchy. Britain has long had trouble making up its mind. Many support the Crown, but many also feel anxious about the cost. That anxiety is increased by the fact that the cost is unknowable. Depends on who’s crunching the numbers. Does the Crown cost taxpayers? Yes. Does it also pay a fortune into government coffers? Also yes. Does the Crown generate tourism income that benefits all? Of course. Does it also rest upon lands obtained and secured when the system was unjust and wealth was generated by exploited workers and thuggery, annexation and enslaved people?

Can anyone deny it?

According to the last study I saw, the monarchy costs the average taxpayer the price of a pint each year. In light of its many good works that seems a pretty sound investment. But no one wants to hear a prince argue for the existence of a monarchy, any more than they want to hear a prince argue against it. I leave cost-benefit analyses to others.