She loves Balmoral, that is obvious to Philip. She is out all day, whatever the weather, and returns as wet and windblown as everyone else, her eyes shining and her skin glowing. It is frustrating not to be able to spend time alone with her, but the days at Balmoral are organised with military precision. At breakfast, everyone is assigned to join a group activity of some kind. The notion that you might want to spend a wet day lying on a sofa reading a book appears not to have occurred to the King. No, they are all dispatched outside to hike up mountains, shoot grouse, catch fish or, like Philip, to stalk deer.

Philip’s favourite time is the tea, which is usually his first chance of the day to talk to Elizabeth, but even their conversation has to take place under the disparaging eyes of the other guests, most of whom have evidently decided that Philip is not ‘one of us’. The Queen’s brother, David Bowes-Lyon, is particularly bloody to him, but Philip hasn’t survived Gordonstoun and the war without being able to tough out snide references to his lack of wardrobe or his German relatives.

His sisters might be married to Germans but they are a damned sight more fun than the Balmoral crowd, Philip tells himself.

The dismal weather tends to clear into soft, golden evenings, but by then there is barely time for a bath in the frigidly old-fashioned bathroom at the end of the corridor and to change for pre-dinner drinks in the drawing room, decorated in the ubiquitous tartan and hung with the dreary landscapes favoured by Queen Victoria. They eat roast grouse every bloody night, as far as Philip can tell, and when dinner is finished a ghastly caterwauling starts up as the King’s seven pipers march through the hall and twice around the dining table. Philip feels his jaw tense and makes an effort to look as if he is appreciating the ritual as much as anyone else, but it is hard. He keeps his eyes on Elizabeth, always seated as far away from him as possible, and tells himself she will be worth it.

The bagpipes aren’t the end of the evening either. Nobody is allowed to slope off for a quiet cigarette or a stroll. No, they have to gather back in the drawing room and play charades or sardines. At least sardines gives Philip the chance to grab Elizabeth’s hand. ‘Let’s hide together,’ he says.

‘Philip, we’re supposed to be looking, not hiding!’

‘All right, let’s look together,’ he concedes. There must be plenty of rooms where they won’t be disturbed. ‘I never get a chance to see you,’ he grumbles.

‘You’re seeing me now.’

‘You know what I mean. We’re never alone.’

‘I know,’ Elizabeth acknowledges. ‘I think a lot of people are going on Saturday so things should be quieter after that. Maybe we could go for a walk one day?’

‘Good.’ Philip smiles and takes her hand to pull her closer. ‘I’m in need of some reassurance,’ he tells her and she laughs softly but before he can kiss her, the door opens and to Philip’s frustration, the King’s equerry, Group Captain Townsend, puts his head in.