Page 107 of The Unlikely Heir
Unfortunately, with me involved, the possibilities seem endless.
As I step out of the car, my ears are filled with the noise of an angry crowd shouting anti-monarchy slogans.
My security team ushers me past the protesters, but not before I glimpse some of the placards:
Dethrone Inequality and End Royal Rule
Give Them all the Royal Finger
Crowns Should be in Dentistry, Not Democracy
I almost want to stop and congratulate the person brandishing that last one because anyone who can put a pun and alliteration in the space of seven words of tooth-related humor deserves some acknowledgment.
But I’ve been given strict instructions that protesters are like the media. You don’t acknowledge them under any circumstances. It will just encourage them more.
Given how the media stalks us relentlessly, I’m not sure if anyone can argue that strategy is particularly successful.
When I round the corner to the field, the sight of people of all ages clad in Wellington boots of every color imaginable brings a grin to my face.
Because here’s the thing.
I love it. When I ignore the press and social media and simply concentrate on my job, which is to interact with people and form a connection with them, I absolutely love it. I love chatting with a variety of different people. I love discovering what’s important to them, listening to their stories, and sharing my own.
I’ve even changed my opinion on the speech-giving aspect of my job now that I think about my words as just another way to connect with people. So I often find myself going back and forth with Maudie about the contents of my speeches, trying to put more of my personality into them.
And okay, it still feels weird that people are excited to meet me, Callum Prescott.
But I’ve realized it’s not actually me they’re excited about. It’s what I represent.
I represent a thousand years of British history. I represent something larger than me, larger than all of us. A continuation of tradition.
A woman sporting a sunshine-yellow raincoat and equally bright wellies bounces toward me, her hand outstretched. "Your Royal Highness, it’s an honor to have you at our Welly Wanging Championship. I’m Susan, Chief Welly Wanger for today’s event.”
I take her hand, giving her a big grin. "Nice to meet you, Susan. I have to confess I’m a welly-wanging virgin. In fact, up until this morning, I called them rubber boots."
She laughs loudly. “We’ll go gentle on you, I promise.”
Susan leads me toward the welly-wanging arena, and I spot a familiar figure at the edge. Nicholas.
He’s standing on the far side of the field with a cluster of people around him.
Seeing my brother causes a flurry of happiness and anxiety inside me. Happiness because this is definitely one of the perks of this whole thing, getting to know my younger half-siblings better. Anxiety because there always appears to be an element of appraisal in Nicholas’s cool blue gaze when he looks at me.
I see the moment the crowd spots me. They turn away from Nicholas, pulsing toward me, my name filling the air as people press closer.
He’s a prince, but I’m the heir. I’m the one who is going to be king.
I shake hands and greet all the well-wishers.
It’s not until the competition is about to begin that I have a chance to sidle over to Nicholas.
“In ancient times, royal brothers would have competed in fencing displays and jousting. Now we throw wellies,” I say to him.
He raises an eyebrow. “Would you have wanted to face me on a jousting field?”
“Given my complete lack of horsemanship skills, I think the change has definitely worked in my favor,” I say. “I’m guessing my welly-wanging prowess will be more proficient than my jousting skills.”
Nicholas smirks. “One would hope so.”
