‘Oh, sorry,’ he says as Elizabeth quickly pulls her hands away.

‘Anyone in there?’ David Bowes-Lyon pushes past Townsend and smiles maliciously when he sees Elizabeth with pink cheeks and a scowling Philip. ‘Oh, I say, are you two lost? You don’t seem to have mastered the rules of the game, Philip, old boy.’

***

Two days later, Philip is lying in the heather beside Murdoch. They have been following a group of red deer for two hours. One animal seems to have an injured leg.

‘She’ll no last the winter,’ Murdoch says, studying the deer through his binoculars. ‘You’ll be doing her a favour.’

Wriggling back out of sight of the deer, he takes the gun, loads it, and hands it up to Philip, who lifts it to his shoulder and puts his eye to the scope. The deer springs into focus. He can see the redness of her coat, the twitching ears, the wary expression in her eyes as she stops and looks around. She is beginning to fall behind the others.

For a moment she seems to look directly at him and Philip almost hesitates, but then she turns her head and stands, almost as if she is inviting him to end it for her. Very carefully, he fixes the sights and pulls the trigger. The deer drops, the rest of the herd take off, and Philip lowers the gun with a strange sigh that is part exultation, part regret.

‘A good, clean shot, sir,’ says Murdoch approvingly. ‘Now all we have to do is carry her down to the road.’

That turns out to be the hardest part of the exercise, but Philip is triumphant when he finally gets back to Balmoral. His success is met with congratulations all round. Shooting a wild animal has, it seems, ensured his temporary acceptance. The King shakes his hand and tells him that Murdoch is impressed by how quickly Philip has taken to stalking.

Philip seizes his chance. ‘Could I have a word with you in your study, sir?’

The King looks wary but agrees to give Philip a few minutes after dinner. Philip has prepared what he will say: he talks eloquently about his regard for Elizabeth and asks permission to tell her how he feels so that if his feelings are reciprocated, which he believes they are, they could become engaged. All this round-about-the-houses is because Uncle Dickie has impressed on him that Elizabeth must do the proposing. Nothing can happen until the King agrees in any case. The Royal Marriages Act of 1772, which Uncle Dickie knows inside out, of course, requires the King’s consent for Elizabeth to be married before she is twenty-five.

But the King is not inclined to give his consent. Lilibet is only twenty, he says. She is too young to be married and there are serious matters still to straighten out on the diplomatic front.

‘My advice is to wait,’ he tells Philip.

Philip bows, because what else can he do? You don’t argue with the King. But when he leaves the King’s study, the set of his jaw is uncompromising.