‘For the greater prize,’ Mountbatten reminded Philip when he hesitated.

Philip knows his uncle is right. Giving up his rights of succession to the Greek throne was a practical decision. It was not as if he would ever have been King anyway. He hasn’t expected to feel strongly about it, but rather like his father’s death, the sudden realisation of what giving up his title would mean has caught him unawares.

He is a prince no longer … so what is he? He is more than a naval officer, whatever some lines on a piece of paper may say. Inside, where it counts, he is as royal as he has ever been.

He has lost a title but gained a name: Mountbatten. Philip is ambivalent about that. On the one hand, he needs to be practical and it is just a name. On the other, it is not his father’s name. It is his uncle’s. Philip doesn’t begrudge Uncle Dickie that small victory but the knowledge that once again his father has been written out of his history niggles like a small stone in his shoe.

But what’s done is done. What matters now is to get the King to agree to an announcement.

‘And we’ve been discreet, as you know,’ he goes on, ‘but there are still rumours about an upcoming engagement. There seems little point in continuing to deny them.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ The King sounds defeated and Philip stiffens hopefully.

‘So … will you make an announcement, sir?’ he asks, picking his words with care. The King is so skittish that Philip wouldn’t put it past him to change his mind.

‘Yes, yes,’ Elizabeth’s father says testily.

Philip just manages to resist punching the air in triumph. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I just hope it’s the right thing.’ To Philip’s dismay, the King goes off on another tangent. ‘I got some rather good pictures in South Africa. Would you like to see them?’

No, Philip wants to shout. No, I don’t want to see your holiday pictures. I want to talk about my engagement!

‘I’d be delighted,’ he says instead through set teeth.

‘Wait here a moment and I’ll go and get them. I think you’ll be interested.’

Dear God. Left alone, Philip drags a hand through his hair and stifles a growl of frustration.

The King’s study smells of leather and old books and stale cigarette smoke. Philip wouldn’t mind a cigarette himself right now, but it would be imprudent to light up, he decides. There is a red box on the desk. His eyes rest on it thoughtfully. One day it will be Elizabeth’s job to work through the government papers, day after day, week after week. She will sit dutifully at the desk where her father sits now and she will never say she is bored or tired.

And what will he be doing? For the first time, Philip considers the matter and disquiet uncurls at the base of his spine. What will he do?