‘All right, pack it up,’ he says impatiently at last. ‘Let’s get this sword on.’

Gingerly, Dean hands him the Battenberg sword lent by Uncle Dickie. It is a magnificent thing, a jewelled, ceremonial sword and symbol of the Battenberg dynasty. To wear it while marrying the heir to the throne is a momentous thing, Philip realises that. He is fulfilling his uncle’s dream, yes, but he is doing this for himself too, and because he wants to marry Elizabeth. He won’t forget that.

With the sword strapped to side, it is not easy to sit down, and Philip is too restless anyway. He paces around the apartment until David, who is to be his best man, begs him to stop.

‘Here, have a smoke,’ he says, proffering the packet.

Philip eyes it longingly but shakes his head. ‘I’ve given up.’

‘You’ve what?’

‘I’ve given up smoking. I promised Elizabeth I would. It’s a vow – and this isn’t the day to start breaking vows.’

‘Dammit.’ David rolls his eyes as he taps the cigarettes back into the packet. ‘Well, let’s have a G&T instead.’

‘It’s only ten-fifteen!’

‘So? I don’t know about you, but I need something to steady my nerves – and I’m not the one marrying the heir to the throne in front of two hundred million people! If we can’t have a fag, let’s at least have a drink.’

Philip looks at his watch. The car isn’t due to come for them until five to eleven. That leaves more than half an hour to hang around wondering what in God’s name he’s let himself in for.

‘All right,’ he says to David. ‘Better make it a small one, though.’

Chapter 51

Buckingham Palace, 20^th November 1947

The sound of bagpipes has woken Elizabeth as usual at six thirty. ‘What’s the weather like?’ she asks Bobo when she brings her a cup of tea.

‘Dreich,’ Bobo opined, drawing back the curtains. ‘But what do you expect for the end of November?’

‘I’m worried about all those people who have slept out. They must have had a cold night.’

‘Aye, well, I don’t doubt they’ll be glad of it when they see you pass by.’

‘Oh, Bobo, I can’t believe it’s really happening!’ Elizabeth puts down the cup and saucer and takes the flesh on her arm between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This is my wedding day.’ The day that seemed as if it would never come is here. The day she has dreamt about for so long. Philip loves her and they are getting married today. ‘I have to keep pinching myself!’

Bobo is never one to lose her head. ‘I’ll go and run your bath,’ is all she says.

Breakfast arrives with a bouquet of white carnations from Philip. Her favourite flower. Elizabeth holds them to her nose, her mouth curving with pleasure at the scent, at the thought.

Still in her dressing gown, she peeps out of her window. Her rooms overlook the Mall, which is already a solid mass of people, with mounted police riding up and down on splendid horses to keep the processional route clear. It’s obvious that huge numbers of people have slept on the pavements and are now having picnic breakfasts, cooking bacon, she guesses, on portable stoves and brewing up coffee. Elizabeth can smell it when she eases open the window. Women are washing their faces, pouring hot water from vacuum flasks into little bowls, and putting on make-up in readiness for the day.