Chapter Text
“Bugger, bollocks, bloody hell!”
Henry smashes his tea cup onto the saucer with far more force than necessary and regrets it instantly. The tea sloshing over the rim and spilling over the papers scattered across his desk doesn’t help with his frustration at all, it just makes him want to swear again. A headache is already forming behind his eyes and he pinches the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stave it off.
“Is everything alright, Your Royal Highness?” a voice asks from the direction of his bathroom and Henry’s head snaps up. A concerned attendant is peering out of his private bathroom, evidently in the midst of the weekly cleaning.
“Sorry, don’t mind me, Shirin,” Henry sighs, bowing his head. “I’ve just spilled my tea.”
The explanation seems to satisfy her, as she returns to whatever task she had been doing.
Another string of frustrated curses is on the tip of his tongue as Henry, not for the first time in his life, bemoans the lack of privacy in the palace. But at least this time, he manages to keep the words to himself. It does not do for the spare to the British throne to curse. He was raised better than that and everyone in the palace knows it.
It takes him a second or two of rifling through his desk drawers to find some paper towels with which to mop up the mess he made.
He cannot help but find it a bit ironic that paper towels are unlikely to help with the real mess that caused him to swear like a commoner in the first place.
A commoner.
The exact words his grandmother used in her message.
"It is with great displeasure that I have been made aware of your recent conduct, which is more befitting of a commoner than a prince of the British Crown. In light of your previous indiscretions and the repercussions they have brought, I am deeply disappointed by the spectacle you have once again created. Such behaviour has the potential to cast a shadow upon the family and the Crown, a matter which necessitates further discussion. Therefore, it is my expectation that you will attend…"
Though the actual text was probably written by one of her staff, Henry is sure.
Which does not change the fact that he has an appointment in less than two hours with the Queen of England (and not her staff) to discuss in detail the mess he’s gotten himself into.
There is even an agenda attached.
---
Item 1: Introduction of Involved Parties
- Montgomery, Francis B., Witness
- Hensdorn, Charles, Party to the Proceedings
- His Royal Highness Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry George Edward James, Prince of Wales, Party to the Proceedings
Item 2: Presentation of the Circumstances Pertaining to the Incident in Question
- Review of events leading to the involvement of all parties in the proceedings.
Item 3: Presentation and Deliberation of Incriminating Evidence Provided by the Witness
- Detailed presentation of witness testimony.
- Examination of key evidence supporting the claims.
Item 4: Presentation of Measures Undertaken for Damage Limitation and Control
- Outline of immediate actions taken to mitigate the impact of the incident.
- Assessment of the effectiveness of the measures applied.
Item 5: Discussion on Strategies for Future Damage Prevention and Mitigation
- Review of potential strategies for avoiding similar incidents in the future.
- Deliberation on best practices for risk management and control.
Item 6: Conclusion
- Summary of findings and proposed next steps for all parties involved.
---
The whole thing sounds terribly clinical. It wasn’t, far from it, actually. It had been messy, rushed and utterly thrilling. It was a moment of weakness.
Henry crumples the soaked paper towels and throws them back onto the desk with a frustrated groan.
He hadn’t seen Charlie in years, not since their days at boarding school. Encountering him at the gala had been somewhat of a surprise, as he hadn’t been on the guest list, but apparently he’d come as a last-minute plus-one for his sister. And even once they’d recognised each other across a room full of illustrious guests, Henry hadn’t had any intention of reconnecting with his former schoolmate.
But it wasn’t only one short glance across a room. There were several. There were nods as well, and a few secretive smiles that reminded them both of old times, when they’d snuck out of study hall in the evenings to meet up in utility closets or empty classrooms.
When Charlie nodded towards the exit, Henry shrugged and followed. Charlie had already signed all manner of NDAs.
It was nothing more than a quick fumble in the back of the car, a little bit of privacy behind tinted windows, the driver off for a quick smoke break. It was Henry on his knees on the floor, Charlie’s trousers pulled down to mid-thigh.
All Henry had wanted was a bit of a distraction.
It was all perfectly captured in the photos.
Damn iPhone cameras.
It had been so bloody long.
And that brief moment of yearning, for excitement, for closeness—that one little indiscretion will now cost him dearly.
It hadn’t even been worth it.
“Your Royal Highness,” Shaan’s voice startles him. “The car will be here in 40 minutes.”
Henry nods. “Thank you, Shaan.”
There is nothing for it. He must face his grandmother, even though the very thought is making him feel sick.
Because the letter clearly stated ‘once again’. She hasn’t forgotten. No one involved in the matter in the past has. This isn’t the first time that evidence of his—in his grandmother’s words—proclivities have come to light. Last time she had made him promise that it would be the last. And today, she will ensure that it is, of that Henry has no doubt.
Henry stares at the letter, at his grandmother’s signature and seal. A dark part of him enjoys the irony. This is his fate, literally sealed.
He buries his face in his hands.
He can’t do this.
For a brief, wild moment he imagines what might happen if he simply didn’t go. If he just stayed here. Who would they send to fetch him? What force could they use to make him comply? And would the defiance be worth it?
“Your Royal Highness, the car is here.”
Shaan’s voice rouses him from his musings.
Henry nods. He can’t do this.
They’ll make him all the same.
***
Thirty minutes later, Henry finds himself in his grandmother’s office.
Several of Her Majesty’s advisors are already in attendance, Your Graces and Most Honourables, all bowing to him as he enters, all watching him with judgement in their eyes the moment he turns away. That much is easy to see. None of them are in his corner, and Henry is very aware of that.
There is already a tea set prepared on Her Majesty’s desk, and Henry would love nothing more than to have a cup in his hands, just to give himself something to do. He’d probably drop the cup, though. His hands are no steadier than they were in his study.
However, he must remain standing until his grandmother has entered and permitted them to be seated.
He stands to the side, just across from Her Majesty’s chair, hands clasped behind his back where no one will notice how he clenches them into fists in an attempt to maintain decorum, a stance that has been drilled into him since earliest childhood.
Minutes tick by. Henry’s gaze fixes on a clock above the decorative mantle. He arrived in Her Majesty's office well beforehand, which he now regrets. Still, it would not do to be late for an appointment with Her Majesty, and his hand is bad enough as it is.
The clock’s hands move one last time, the ornate bells starting to chime the hour. Henry winces.
Queen Mary sweeps into the room, her equerry, Thommy, hurrying behind her. The doors close with a decisive click.
The whole room bows, as does Henry. He’s been trained to do this. He was seven when he first learned that not everybody bows to their grandparents.
“Shall we, then,” the Queen says, stepping behind her desk to sit down. On cue, everybody else takes their seat as well.
Henry is seated directly across from her, in a visitor’s chair, with the advisory staff lining up against the walls on either side. It uncomfortably reminds him of the last time he was in this position, even though that was over five years ago. The circumstances were similar, as is the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.
With a wave of her hand the Queen dismisses any remaining waitstaff, leaving Thommy to pour her tea. There is a tumbler of gin as well, but for now it remains untouched.
“Now, your Grace, if you would,” Her Majesty gestures to one of the advisors, before taking a sip of her tea. The advisor, Lord Bexley, immediately gets up, handing out folders to all in attendance. Henry receives his last.
All around the room there is the rustling of papers, the shuffling of glasses being flicked open and put on. He doesn’t need to open it. He already knows what’s inside.
“Your Majesty has called this meeting today to discuss recent events that have come to light concerning His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales, here in attendance” the advisor starts, gesturing towards where Henry is sitting, as if anyone in the room is unaware of his presence and exact location.
“Also involved in these proceedings is Mr Charles Hensdorn, not in attendance, an acquaintance of His Royal Highness, and former classmate, as well as Mr Francis Bartholomew Montgomery, witness to the events and the reason we find ourselves here today.”
He pauses, for dramatic effect. Henry clenches his fists on top of the folder.
“All three parties were in attendance at the annual English Air Emergency Services Charity Gala, held at the Opera House Hotel in Leicester Square. Proceedings between the involved parties later moved to the hotel’s parking garage without involvement of the armed personal protection officers as per the decision of His Royal Highness Prince Henry.
The witness has brought to the Crown’s attention the existence of certain photographs, taken by the witness himself, which, if publicised, would have a rather damaging effect on the image of the most honourable House of Mountchristen-Windsor and the Crown.”
There are pictures of him, climbing into the back of the car, closely followed by Charlie, with a not so discreet hand on his arse. There are pictures, ostensibly taken through the front window of the same car, Henry on his knees in between Charlie’s spread thighs in an unmistakably compromising position.
There is one picture of Henry in focus, with a hand down his own perfectly pressed trousers, head thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure.
It is the one everybody in this room is now staring at. He has to close his eyes to hold back tears of humiliation. Everybody in this room can see him on his knees—the deviant prince, come to bring shame upon the royal family with his unnatural proclivities that he is not man enough to suppress.
People are looking at him. He can feel their eyes on him, comparing him to the pictures laid out before them, to see if that is really the shape of his lips wrapped around some random man’s prick.
It is, that is unmistakable. No photoshopping necessary. The Prince of England’s Hearts has done all these things. Climbed into the car, gave Charlie a blow job and once he came, brought himself off while kneeling on the floor of the car, the smell of sweat and sex pushing him over the edge.
And now he is standing on the precipice, a drop of hundreds of metres below, his only option being to jump.
“Now, the witness was found to be quite reasonable,” the advisor continues, “as he opted to contact the Palace rather than any media outlets. We were able to agree on a fair sum in exchange for all copies of incriminating evidence and a stipend for continued silence on the matter, assured by a comprehensive non-disclosure agreement that Mr Montgomery signed immediately.”
Of course, he blackmailed the Crown and the Crown paid. It was all a matter of finding the highest bidder, and it had to be his grandmother, of course. No amount of cash is too high to safeguard the image of the British Monarchy. The matter will be settled post haste and none of the photographs will ever see the light of day.
Henry, however, is under no illusion that this is the end of the matter for him. He’s gotten away with a slap on the wrist once before. This time they will make sure something like this will not occur again.
After all, there is still one crucial item on the agenda.
“Thank you, your Grace, for addressing our collective concerns in this most distressing matter,” the Queen acknowledges with a nod towards the advisor.
Henry opens his eyes. The Queen remains engrossed in the contents of her folder, which, no doubt, contains additional information along with her personal notes and those of several of the men in the room with them.
“I believe that there is one particular issue remaining, one that is, I am sure you would agree, of fundamental importance. Do correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe this is not the first instance in which the Crown had to intervene to address a personal indiscretion of yours, Henry.”
Her head snaps up, piercing eyes meeting Henry’s. The spreading silence makes it clear that she expects a response.
Henry swallows audibly. “No, Grandma.”
“And did this past indiscretion not also involve indecent contact with other males?”
Shame rises hot inside of him. Henry vividly remembers the feeling back then, so similar to what drove him towards Charlie at the charity gala. The burning need inside him, the yearning to be close to another body, another man, almost consuming him. It is something so forbidden for him, so illicit, and yet he could not resist.
He’d just wanted to feel good for a few moments, feel lust and closeness, everything that seemed healthy and normal for a man—provided it didn’t involve another person of the same gender.
But Henry cannot have any of that. He is not allowed to be with the gender he feels attracted to. He does not get to have things like love and acceptance and safety.
The feeling is just the same, too, standing before Her Majesty, her advisors flanking her, judging him for his desires, for daring to take even a small piece of something they all take for granted. He wants to shake his head, wants to tell her not to judge, wants to tell them all to sod off. He doesn’t. He can’t. He couldn’t back then, either.
“Yes, Grandma,” he replies tonelessly. The words taste like ash in his mouth.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she continues, relentless, indifferent to the black spots that start dancing before Henry’s eyes, “that at the age of 26, you are as unable as you were at 19 to keep your deviant proclivities in check?”
A sob rises in his throat. Henry swallows, swallows again. He manages to keep it down, but barely. He will not cry. He must not cry.
“No Grandma, I—”
“Just as I anticipated,” she interrupts, her tone resolute. “It seems that it is in the interest of both Crown and country that we intervene in this most unsavoury business of yours. In the past I have been too lenient, as my advisors have found necessary to inform me seven years ago when I had given you the benefit of the doubt. I shall no longer disregard their counsel on this matter, Henry. Today we shall take the opportunity to deliberate on our options to address your little… issue once and for all.”
Henry opens his mouth, to reply something, anything, but is cut short by another of the queen’s advisors, His Grace Lord Hartley-Faunton, rising and, upon a nod from Her Majesty, approaching the table with a stack of neatly stapled documents.
“Your Majesty, at your behest we have compiled a list of recommendations to prevent future indiscretions of this nature,” he declares, his face maintaining a mask of careful neutrality though the sneer in his voice is unmistakable.
“Very well Michael, if you would,” the Queen gestures towards the room, and Lord Hartley-Faunton starts distributing the pamphlets. Henry receives his last, as if he was only an afterthought in the proceedings.
The list of recommendations is brief and mostly what Henry anticipated.
“The first item, Your Majesty,” the Lord begins, “is for the Prince to attend the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, ensuring a rigorous education followed by military service in one of the branches of the British Armed Forces.”
The suggestion is not a new one, nor is it particularly original. It is the typical path most men born into the royal family follow. Philip did, right after graduating university. Henry himself never intended to, instead following his academic leanings into attending Oxford, where he is currently following in his mother’s footsteps to obtain a doctorate in English literature.
The issue with said suggestion is that at 26 he is already too old to start attending Sandhurst now and everyone present in this room is well aware of this.
And indeed, it is the first counter argument that is voiced.
“Surely the Academy would be inclined to make an exception at Her Majesty’s express wish,” another advisor points out, earning several nods of agreement around the room.
“I have previously expressed my desire for my grandsons to attend Sandhurst,” the Queen agrees with a sage nod.
“What must be considered,” somebody chimes in, “is that it would leave the Prince’s current academic pursuits incomplete. We must take into account the public perception of such a career shift.”
“Quite so, quite so, a member of the royal family not completing their degree might not inspire confidence in their steadfastness.”
“But would a military education suggest the epitome of steadfastness?”
“That would suggest a member of the royal family was being less than reliable to begin with.”
“It has been suggested before that the Prince’s choice of academic pursuits may have been ill-advised. A solid military foundation is still considered essential even today, to set a proper example for the common man.”
“Indeed, the military service is known to build character and to rectify all that is weak and unworthy in human nature.”
“While that may well be true, given unfavourable decisions made in the past, the military academy may be seen as an untenable option if one wishes to avoid allegations of nepotism.”
Cranwell College and the Royal Navy College get shot down for similar reasons.
The next suggestion, Henry joining the military without completing a command track education, is promptly dismissed by the Queen, who declares that no grandson of hers will serve at such a low rank.
The discussion swirls all around Henry, advisors rising from their seats, wandering around the room, debating the merit and feasibility of various ideas among themselves, the Queen occasionally demanding an update, injecting her own opinions here and there. Henry, however, sits right in the centre of everything, but nobody speaks to him. Nobody asks for his thoughts while they discuss his future. Nobody cares to hear it. He is only here as an accessory.
Henry would like to tell them that he hates the very idea. The army would eat him alive, regardless of the modern policies they are nowadays wearing like a rainbow-tinted flag. The people joining the military are still largely the same way they’ve always been. A title would be more of a hindrance than help among such comrades. He doesn’t get the chance to.
Thankfully, after what feels like an eternity, the Queen halts the discussions regarding this particular avenue.
The armed forces are not a suitable path for Prince Henry of Wales. Henry would like to breathe a sigh of relief, but he knows that the worst is yet to come.
“Gentlemen,” the Queen resumes. “What other options do we have?”
The second option, predictably, involves taking on a more representative role for the Crown, but immediately objections are voiced.
“After the most recent incident, how likely is it that such indiscretions can be avoided if the palace cannot keep a close eye on international engagements?” one of the advisors asks, others quickly agreeing. “It is simply not feasible to arrange the necessary oversight to ensure minimal guarantee contact with outside influence”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in Henry. He is quick to smother it with a hand pressed to his mouth. To his own ears it sounds more like a sob. But nobody around him pays him any heed, as though it is not him they are discussing, but an abstract concept. They walk around, talking over him, passing judgement and sharing opinions.
Outside influence, he thinks bitterly. As if that’s the only reason he turned out to be gay. That he still keeps it up after sowing his wild oats in his teenage years. They talk over him like he is just some commodity, an animal to be kept in a cage and paraded around when useful. That he better have a handler to ensure he won’t fly off the rails again and bring more shame upon the crown.
“There is a rather elegant solution,” the Queen interrupts renewed discussions and everything around her falls silent. “A person who would naturally be expected to always be at the prince’s side. He must marry, it is as simple as that.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He had expected nothing else, naturally, but no amount of anticipation could prepare him for hearing it spoken out loud. It is the moment he has dreaded since he realised that the people he was attracted to were not the people a male member of the British royal family would be allowed to marry.
Six years ago he narrowly avoided this fate. Now they want him to swallow the bitter hemlock after all.
“A very solid suggestion, Your Majesty.”
“No.”
“Indeed, a viable option.”
“I can’t.”
“It is about time the Prince chose a bride, now that His Royal Highness Prince Philip is soon to be married.”
“I-I can’t!”
“There are several highly desirable matches available, as currently Princess Caroline of Denmark, for instance, is no longer courting her commoner boyfriend and the Swedish royal family is eager to see Princess Constance Eleonora wed as soon as possible.”
“She is 18!”
“Indeed, both young ladies are highly advantageous matches that the British crown would be most fortunate to be able to welcome into the family. However—”
"I cannot marry a woman!"
Henry finds himself standing in front of Her Majesty’s desk, hands balled into fists, the sound from his chair falling to the floor still echoing in the room.
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by his own harsh breathing and the blood rushing in his ears.
It only lasts two seconds before Her Majesty the Queen whirls around to face him.
“Spare me the theatrics, child. You can and you will.”
“I—”
“You’ve caused your family enough grief,” she continues. “It is about time to put your mother’s heart at ease about your future.”
Henry swallows down the words on his tongue. It is really the only thing his grandmother could have said that would make any difference to him.
“There, now,” the Queen nods approvingly, taking his silence for acquiescence. “Let us discuss this most agreeable option further.”
The advisors nod in agreement as Her Majesty returns to her seat. An attendant is immediately at hand to right Henry’s chair for him, just in time for his knees to give out under him.
“Do you truly believe this will make me happy?” Henry finally finds his voice.
“Dear boy, this is not about happiness,” the Queen scoffs. “It is about duty. The best you can hope for is making your country, your family proud.”
“Then why should I—”
“Oh, no need to worry,” she again interrupts with an impatient wave of her hand. “We shall sweeten the pot for you, so to speak.”
Henry lets his head sink into his hands. He doesn’t say another word for the remainder of the meeting.
***
By the time the meeting concludes, Henry is exhausted. He’d desperately tried to keep up with everything going on around him, but the different groups at opposite corners of the room as well as Her Majesty right across from him all talking among and over one another had made that nearly impossible. He’d tried to make himself heard, to offer his opinion and present arguments in a reasonable and well-spoken manner. He’d tried to suppress his emotions, to minimise the damage with constructive criticism.
All to no avail.
Her Majesty has decreed that he is to marry a suitable young woman, and soon. The advisors had finally agreed that Princess Constance Eleonora of Sweden is too young after all, but only after one of the advisors had declared it so. Nobody had even taken Henry’s objections seriously. This left Princess Caroline of Denmark along with several British ladies, all deemed suitable, though of course a marriage with the Danish royal family would be by far the most prestigious match.
Contact with the Danish Royal Family is to be established as soon as possible, with a date for a first meeting between the two young royals to be set within the next few weeks.
After six months of dating, Henry and Caroline will announce their engagement to each other, and in one year’s time they will be wed, provided that Caroline and her family are amenable to a match.
They will be, Henry has no illusions. He is too advantageous a match.
In exchange, Henry will be allowed to make use of an escort service, with all interactions strictly monitored by the Crown. He almost laughed hysterically at that. At first Her Majesty had not been amused by that suggestion, but had allowed her advisors to persuade her when they likened it to a form of therapy—a method to manage the young prince’s deviant desires until he was legally married to his new wife.
Nobody had listened to Henry’s protests.
Numbly he makes his way outside. Dusk has already settled in. Henry has no idea what time it is. A car pulls up, the driver getting out to open the door. Henry gets in and stares out of the tinted window at the grey city, the grey houses, grey streets and the grey clouds in the sky. The poet inside him appreciates the metaphor. The realist voice in his head tells him it could be so much worse. That there are people who have it far worse. He is a prince and he has everything he needs. He has no right to complain. He simply needs to suck it up.
At Kensington, the gates open automatically and close behind the car. When it stops at the back entrance, Henry waits for the driver to open the door, for an attendant to admit him into the palace, for another to take his coat.
Shaan is waiting for him in his study.
“Welcome home, Your Royal Highness,” he greets, tone carefully neutral. “I received a memo from the palace regarding recent developments and have consequently scheduled an appointment with your physician tomorrow at 9. I have made sure to put it in your calendar with a one hour reminder.”
Henry nods.
“If Your Royal Highness has no further need of me today, I shall retire.”
“No, thank you, Shaan.”
He does not wait for the door to close behind him before walking over to his desk. The spilled tea cup from this afternoon is gone, replaced by a fresh tea set on the small side table. Chamomile, from the smell of it. There is also a covered dish. Shaan must have ordered dinner for him.
Henry doesn’t care for either, but nobody bothered asking. Even in his own home, he is just an accessory, a little bird returned to his gilded cage with a sheet draped over it.
He sits down in his chair and buries his head in his hands. At least in his cage, no one is watching. At least under the sheet no one sees him cry tears of impotent rage.
***