“There was a pair of aristocratic lads at Cambridge who were in the mid-two-digit range,” remembered Iris. “They used to keep a massive chart on the wall, crossing out and adding names as events dictated. They had a running bet as to who would be closer when they graduated. It was all rather tasteless and obnoxious.”

“Who won the bet?”

“No idea. One of them bought it later, commanding a tank division at El-Alamein, so the other has moved up a notch by now. Now, to the matter at hand. The princess loves a prince.”

“Thirteen years old,” Gwen sighed. “Can you imagine marrying someone you fell for at thirteen?”

“Who was your crush when you were thirteen?” asked Iris.

“I don’t want to say,” said Gwen, blushing.

“Come on, you tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine,” urged Iris, grinning at the other’s discomfort.

“A stable boy at my grandfather’s estate,” said Gwen. “Actually, my immediate love was my horse, Sir Prancealot—”

“Did you name him that?”

“I did. His real name was something boring and lineal.”

“I never thought that I could feel embarrassed for a horse until now. So, off to the stables you’d go, in your jodhpurs and boots, a pocket full of sugar cubes—”

“Yes. And I would pat his muzzle while Derek—”

“Ah, Derek. Now, there’s a proper name for this story.”

“While Derek would saddle him and lead him out. Then he’d give me a leg up.”

“I’ll bet he did. How old was this strapping young lad?”

“Fifteen, and don’t try to make this into a D. H. Lawrence novel.”

“Sorry. Pray, continue.”

“Derek was handsome, and kind, and courteous,” said Gwen dreamily. “Of course, my attentions were quickly transferred from Sir Prancealot to him. He smelled of horses and straw, and wore suspenders over his undershirt in the summer so that his arms and shoulders were bare. And magnificent.”

“Mmm,” said Iris, closing her eyes for a moment. “Right. Go on.”

“There’s not much more to tell,” said Gwen.

“There isn’t?” exclaimed Iris. “Why not?”

“It was a crush, no more,” said Gwen. “The physical contact we had was limited to his hands making a step for my foot when I climbed into the saddle, and his hands on my waist to steady me as I dismounted.”

“Did you at least accidentally stumble on the dismount so that your body pressed against his? It’s a standard move.”

“I did once,” confessed Gwen. “And I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I fantasised that he was a noble in disguise, fleeing some evil plot, and that he would reveal himself and carry me away to his Bavarian castle. I wasn’t even certain where Bavaria was at the time, but it sounded like the right place to end up.”

“And after that?”

“Tragedy!” cried Gwen with a sob, pounding her fist into her chest. “I learned that he loved another!”

“Oh, my sweet wronged Gwendolyn! Who dared come between you?”

“A girl of fifteen from the village who actually knew what to do with a fifteen-year-old stable boy, which I certainly did not. They were caught aloft in the loft. Or was it in the croft? I always mix those up.”