As always, Willy’s own terrified shouts woke him. He was bathed in sweat, his heart pounding, his pulse racing. He fought free of the tangled sheets; screamed, ‘Get out!’ at the almost equally terrified valet who, as ever on such occasions, had nervously entered the room; swung his legs over the edge of the bed and, like the small petrified child he had once been, covered his face with his hands and wept.

Later, when he had recovered a semblance of control, Willy wiped the tears away, heaved himself to his feet and shrugged himself into a tartan dressing gown. Then he walked wearily to the window and pulled one of the two heavy curtains to one side.

His bedroom overlooked a lake that stretched the entire east side of the palace and, in the ethereal light of breaking dawn, two swans glided serenely upon it. Having mated for life, the pair were always together. Mercifully, always being together was not something that applied to Willy and Dona. Her bedroom was a conventional distance away from his on the other side of their separate bathrooms, dressing rooms and sitting rooms and, even if she had heard his terrified shouts, he doubted if Dona would have had the nerve to walk in on him and try to wake him.

And he most certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to. Dear God, he didn’t want anyone ever to see him screaming with fear and sobbing like a child: not his valets, not his wife, not anyone. It was too far removed from the image he projected of himself, an image that was far different from the real Willy – the timid, not-very-clever Willy whom he had long learned to keep hidden under a cloak of constant pretence; a pretence that had become a way of life.

He had been six when he discovered what a difference and a comfort pretending to be someone he wasn’t could be. It had been a cold autumn day and he was to accompany his grandfather, the Kaiser, to the parade ground at Potsdam. Dressed appropriately in a Foot Guards uniform made especially for him, he was marching up and down, practising, in the hope that his grandfather would allow him to march with the soldiers.

Watching from a distance, his mother had called Willy across to her and he had run to her, eager for her praise, for praise from his mother was seldom, if ever, given. With his face shining in happy expectation, he had floundered to a halt in front of her and waited for her to tell him what a wonderful little soldier he was, and how proud his grandfather would be of him when he saw him in his uniform. Instead she’d said tartly, ‘Do stop making such an exhibition of yourself, Willy. In uniform you look like an organ-grinder’s monkey.’