A very young Prince of Wales

Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, was foiled in taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War by a mysterious man in black.

The Prince of Wales was bored. It was one of those de riguere dinners with the family at Windsor Castle, not one of his favorite royal residences: too drafty, too remote, and too filled of the pomposity that was his father. He thought his brothers and his sister would have to stand forever until the parents royale entered the dark dining hall lit by tall, elegant flickering candles.
Finally George V and Queen Mary appeared in the door and dramatically approached their seats. Servants pulled back the chairs. As they sat, the servants standing behind the princes and princess seated them with smooth precision.
Attendants, in unison, approached each royal personage on the left with the soup course. No one dared to lift a spoon until King George took his utensil and swiped it through the consommé.
“We are honored by the presence of the Prince of Wales,” he announced while a few droplets fell through his whiskers. “What? Couldn’t find a strumpet to occupy your weekend?”
Ignoring his father’s question, the prince returned with his own inquiry. “Is your sciatica acting up, Papa? There’s some rain in the forecast. It has been a year since you fell off your horse while reviewing the troops in France.”
“Most inappropriate,” Queen Mary intoned.
David sipped a bit of consommé and smiled. “At least I don’t dribble my soup.”
“At least I visited the front,” his father huffed. “You haven’t made it out of headquarters.”
“A few times. I have seen the wounded. The piles of discarded arms and legs.”
“David!” Mary’s voice raised above her usual respectful murmur. “That’s quite enough!”
That was what they called him. David. He did not know why, though he did rather like it. The name David did not reek of proper putrefaction like George, Edward or Henry. The next eldest son was called Bertie. How refreshing. Then came their sister Mary and brothers George and Henry. Boring. Again boring. Oh, how David hated to be bored.
“You missed all the excitement last week,” George V continued, evidently choosing to ignore his son’s remarks on dismembered body parts. “The archbishop almost missed our monthly prayer breakfast at Buckingham. It seemed these rotters from Scotland had plans to spirit him away.”
“”George! Language!” the queen protested.
“But one way or another someone in secret service caught wind of the plan. The bloody little blighters wanted to exchange the archbishop for one of those horrid anarchists we have imprisoned. I can’t quite remember his name….”
David smiled to himself. The man’s name is Jack Smith. He is from Glasgow. He leads a group protesting the war. Well, let Papa glory in his ignorance. At least I know the truth.
Yes, the truth, which could not be shared with the royal family nor could it be comprehended by them. George and Mary and the siblings had never understood David, because he was not like any other Prince of Wales in history.
He retreated unto himself as his father continued to ramble. The prince concentrated on his beefsteak—medium rare per his personal preference. The oozing red juices both excited and soothed him. He remembered when that particular fascination came over him.
He was twelve years old when he entered the Royal Naval Academy in Osborne. It was his first time to live away from home. No servants waited on him, ready to cater to his every caprice. David was noticeable shorter than the other boys and slight of build. His voice had not yet mellowed into a respectable baritone.
Frankly, David was surprised to find out anyone considered his countenance anything less than regal and elegant. He was shocked to discover the others did not immediately acknowledge his natural superiority. Within a few weeks of his arrival David began to restrict his diet and began a vigorous exercise regimen which went beyond the demands of the required training of the other boys.
He interrupted his thoughts to pull out and light a cigarette. He was only vaguely aware of his mother’s remonstrations. He ignored her rules about smoking at the dining table. What was she going to do, ban him from being crowned King of the British Empire? Take away his title of Prince of Wales? What a relief that would be.
Retreating back into his memories, David went to the day a group of his fellow students grabbed him in the showers. The gang leader was several inches taller than the average boy and seemed overly endowed with hormonal secretions. His claim to higher class entitlement came from his father who owned the largest automobile dealership of imported continental luxury motor cars. A few moments passed as David tried to remember the boy’s name. Nope. Couldn’t remember it. Thank God. Absolutely hated the little bastard.
On the day of the incident in the shower the car dealer’s son told the other cadets to hold David down. He poured an entire bottle of red ink on his head.
“I hereby crown you Queen Mary!”
After they left him, David washed it out the best he could and then carefully shaved the rest of the red hairs off. He was quite pleased with his skill at creating a new distinctive coiffure.
The car dealer’s son was not pleased. Within a few weeks the same cadre of cadets pulled David from his bed at midnight, stuck his head out of a window and let it go. As the window frame crashed down on his neck, he heard the motor car boy shout, “Long live the King!”
Of course, David did not let a whimper escape his lips nor did a tear fall down his cheek. Secretly he wished his neck would have snapped and he would die. At least he would be spared listening to his father’s ramblings. Neither did he report the incident to the academy commandant. The royal family always handled its problems its own private way. He stayed within his circle of friends and avoided situations where he might be alone with the bullies.
Apparently the guillotine gang leader was content that he had broken the spirit of the future king of England. What he did not know was that David was quietly observing his every move. He knew the bully’s routine, when he was alone and left unprotected by his gang. Only David knew the car dealer’s son went to the gymnasium each morning at the same time David went on his early jogs around the campus.
One morning as he ran past the gymnasium he slipped in the back door and found motor car boy on his back on the weight bench struggling with one of the heavier bar bells. Without any ado David walked over, forcefully lowered the bar down on the bully’s throat and held it there until the boy’s eyes bulged, his face turned a deep purple and saliva drippled from his lips.