Windsor, England
September 2014

Wild horses couldn't drag me away

"Ho!" Sitting down deeper in the saddle, I close my knees and apply light pressure to the reins. Blacky flickers his ears towards me. He slows his trot before coming to a halt, skipping over the walking part just as I wanted him to. When he stands, all four hooves are nicely placed below his body.

"Well done!" I praise him, reaching out to pat his flank.

He flexes his neck forward, experimentally pushing against the bit to see whether the reins might loosen. Briefly, I let my hands follow the movement and allow him to stretch his neck, but then gather him back towards me. Pressing my calves against his sides, I ask him to go forward again and he obediently transitions back into a trot, lightly jiggling the bit with his tongue.

He's moving a little too enthusiastically, so I flex my ring fingers to perform a half-halt, collecting him beneath me as I do. There's a moment of hesitation, but then Blacky acquiesces and I feel his back rise and his gait shorten as his hind legs come up under his body to support it.

"Good boy," I murmur, briefly moving a hand forward to stroke his withers. Blacky snorts contentedly and chomps down on his bit as he trots along the diagonal of the riding area. I allow him to lengthen his stride into a medium trot, while lightly playing with the reins to keep the connection. He reacts willingly, showing the desired impulsion and suppleness in his gait.

Or, he does, until there's a sound near the door and he suddenly shies away. Instinct kicking in, I close my legs around Blacky's body for stability, sit down deeply in the saddle and pull at the reins with more force than normal. Blacky bolts forward for a second, raising his head and pushing against the reins, but then he responds to my aids and slows down, before coming to a shivering halt.

"There's a good horse," I tell him soothingly. "Nothing to be afraid of."

I keep my grip in the reins to give him stability, only allowing myself to rather awkwardly pat a closed fist against his neck. Briefly, one ear flickers back towards me, before he directs his attention back towards the door. His entire body is tense, ready to bolt again at a moment's notice.

"Sorry," Persis calls out. When I half-turn my head in her direction, I can see she's looking sheepish.

"It's okay," I assure her, though still keeping the majority of my focus on Blacky. "He's got to learn how to deal with this."

Persis replies something that could be "tell me about it", but I don't pay enough attention to be sure. Instead, I carefully slip my feet from the stirrups, before swinging my right leg over Blacky's croup and sliding from the saddle. Only when my feet have hit the ground do I loosen my tight hold on the reins.

Blacky prances nervously, but when I move to stand by his head, muttering soothing words of nothingness, I notice him directing his attention back towards me. One hand on the reins, I raise the other to stroke his muzzle, trying to communicate that everything is alright. It takes a few moments for him to relax, but finally, with a heavy sigh, he lowers his head towards me, allowing me to rub his forehead.

It's only now that the horse is calmed down that I turn back to the door, where Persis is standing – accompanied by an entire TV crew. Part of me wants to ignore them, but then Persis raises a hand to wave me over and it's not like I can ignore that.

Clicking my tongue encouragingly and giving the reins a tug, I ask Blacky to accompany me there. He's apprehensive, but clearly feels more courageous now that he can hide behind me and follows me towards the door. With about two meters to go, he comes to a halt again, loudly blowing air through his nostrils and staring wide-eyed at the furry sound boom.

Since we're close enough for conversation and given that a sound boom is not an object your regular horse must necessarily be familiar with, I relent and permit him to remain standing. Patting his neck, I slip the reins over his head for more length, before turning to face Persis and her camera crew. Behind me, Blacky snorts distrustfully, but remains still.

"How did he do today?" Persis asks conversationally, apparently determined to ignore the camera and appear natural. (She's only partly succeeding.)

"He did well," I answer, my gaze flickering towards the camera and back to Persis. "He only spooked three times before you turned up."

Persis smiles wryly. She extends a hand for Blacky to sniff at, but he remains steadfast, refusing to come any closer to the sound boom. After a moment, Persis drops her hand and turns to the woman to her right, who is evidently the moderator of the TV program they're filming.

"This is one of my junior horses." Persis indicates Blacky. "I got him this spring. He has very good gaits and can jump mountains, making him a potentially great all-rounder. He'd be the perfect eventing horse, if only he weren't so spooky. Depending on whether he can overcome that, he'll either be the best buy I ever made or the greatest disappointment of them all."

"We're working on it," I chime in defiantly, feeling I have to defend Blacky who is really trying his best and not at fault for being a little jumpy.

"Is he still afraid of his own shadow?" counters Persis jokingly.

"Only if it moves too fast," I shoot back.

Persis and the moderator laugh. Blacky snorts nervously.

"Rilla has really been helping me with his training," Persis explains. "He needs a lot of time and patience, which I don't always have because of my other horses. When he came here, he really was afraid of his own shadow, but Rilla has been doing wonders. He's much calmer already."

"He just needed to get settled in," I respond modestly, feeling a little uneasy with the praise. "I'm mostly doing basic training exercises with him. Persis is by far the better rider and I couldn't hope to match her skill."

Persis shakes her head decisively. "You've gotten really good! You're so good at getting them to relax and loosen up. Even Mum says so. She said you have a very steady, gentle hand."

I raise both eyebrows, surprised. If Leslie said that, it's high praise indeed. I've seen her ride and she could rival most top-tier dressage riders. When she's on Rusalka, it looks like they're floating, hardly even touching the ground, and yet, even to the trained eye Leslie is barely moving. She's really, really, really good and while I will never be as good a rider as she and Persis are, it makes me feel proud to hear that Leslie praised me.

The moderator, perhaps tired of listening to Persis and me heaping praise on each other, pipes up, "Rilla had a hand in your miracle ride last month as well, didn't she?"

"I helped warm up the horse. It was nothing," I clarify, just as Persis protests, "It wasn't a miracle ride at all. If anything, Alix was the miracle."

I don't know how she did it, but Persis prevailed at the WEG and finished the jumping part of the competition. She looked somewhat dazed throughout, but Alix did, indeed, know what to do, clocking a clear round in time for the pair of them. Individually, it was only good for tenth place, but it secured the British team a silver medal. However, when Persis fainted right off the podium at the award ceremony, there was no hiding her cold anymore. The papers, naturally, went wild, reporting for days about how their princess rallied to win a silver medal against all odds (her poor teammates got pushed to the side a bit, I fear). It also led to the BBC asking to produce a documentary about Persis and her horses, which explains this weekend's presence of the moderator, the camera team and the terrifying sound boom.

(To be honest, I did not plan to be a part of this documentary, but I think I can withhold permission to use the bits with me later on. I'm not particularly wild on the scenes with me getting shown on principle. After all, it's a bit hypocritical to ask for privacy and then allow yourself to be filmed for TV, even in support of a friend.)

"You enjoy getting creative with naming your horses, don't you?" the moderator asks Persis, probably prompted by the jump that needs to be taken to get from The Sea King's Daughter to Alix.

"Their names are all related to past royals in some way," answers Persis, looking a little embarrassed.

"Of course they are," declares the moderator brightly. "What is the name of this handsome fellow?"

"Blacky," replies Persis.

The moderator looks at Blacky and frowns in confusion. "Blacky?" she repeats quizzically.

Obviously, she's unable to bridge the discrepancy between Blacky's name and his chestnut coat. Not that I can blame her.

"Oh." Persis laughs a little self-deprecatingly. "His full name is The Black Prince's Ruby. I would have nicknamed him Ruby, but that's more of a girl's name."

The moderator nods, but her frown doesn't disappear. "Black Prince, you say? That is an unusual name in today's political climate."

Persis's laugh dies on her lips. Instead, her expression shows first confusion and then, as the meaning of the words dawns on her, turns increasingly horrified. I know she never once considered that someone might feel offended by Blacky's name, nor did she intend for it to happen.

With Persis rendered speechless and the moderator expecting an answer, I take a step forward. Blacky follows me reluctantly, still eyeing the sound boom. Speaking in what I hope is a calm and reasonable voice, I rack my brain for what Owen told me when we visited The Tower together.

"The Black Prince's Ruby is a gemstone that is – " (In which crown was it set again?) "that is part of the crown jewels. It is not a real ruby," (Was it a spinel?) "but it's been called that for hundreds of years. Originally, it belonged to Edward the Black Prince, who was the son of… of Edward III." (Please let it not have been Edward II!) "He wore a black armour, hence why people called him the Black Prince and hence why the horse is called Blacky. If Edward had had a taste for pink, we'd be calling the horse Pinkie now, but amusing as that might be, it's not the case. We have to strive for historical accuracy, of course."

I smile at the moderator, daring her to contradict me on anything I just said (all the while hoping I got my Edwards right). It was delivered, I must admit, with more pretended than actual confidence and with little to no authority.

"Historical accuracy," repeats the moderator, mirroring my smile. "That's very important."

"It is," I agree, even though I honestly couldn't care less about how historically accurate the names of Persis's horses are. But if it means getting the woman to leave Persis alone, I tell the lie happily and would tell several more if necessary.

Persis seems to have used the moment to collect herself, because she, too, has now put on a pleasant smile. (If it's a bit shaky, she can surely be forgiven for that.) "Rilla explained it perfectly," she asserts, hopefully closing down the subject once and for all. Turning to me, she asks quickly, "We planned to go up to the meadow by the forest next. Do you want to come with us?"

She's afraid of more probing questions and wants someone to hide behind, just as Blacky is still hiding behind me rather than face the sound boom head on. But even though I understand the sentiment, there's no use in me drawing attention during what is supposed to be her big TV moment. (Quite apart from me not wanting to be filmed for longer than necessary.)

"I still have to finish up Blacky's training," I tell her apologetically, patting her arm in a way not unlike I patted Blacky's neck minutes ago. What I'm really trying to say is, 'You'll be fine.' I hope she understands.

Persis swallows, but then nods bravely. "Of course you do. I'll see you later?"

"I'll be around for lunch," I confirm. (The moderator pricks her ears up at this.) "And speaking of lunch," I continue, ignoring everyone but Persis, "do you want me to take Blue out afterwards? Ken and I wanted to go for a ride and I thought it might be good training for him after his injury. Lots of walk, maybe a little trot. Nothing too strenuous."

"You mean Ken plans on riding his own horse for a change?" asks Persis, a sly smile spreading over her face.

"He rides Jack plenty," I parry, but with a smile of my own.

(It's not exactly accurate. If someone were to count, they'd find me riding Jack more often than Ken does, but then, he's much busier than I am. Pamela really doesn't overwork us, whereas Ken has a royal thing basically every other day, plus all the non-public stuff he has to do. He's busy alright.)

"If you say so…" Persis lets the sentence trail of to express her doubt.

Smiling, I shake my head at her, then nod at the moderator and her camera crew. "I've got to continue here. It was nice meeting you." Without waiting around for a reply, I turn back to Blacky, hoping they can catch a hint.

Apparently, they do, because when I look over my shoulder moments later, I can see the entire group retreating and leaving the riding area altogether.

"They're gone, Blacky," I tell the horse quietly. "Should we get some more work done?" He nudges my arm with his nose, which I take to mean he agrees.

I get back into the saddle and take up the reins again, to which Blacky responds willingly enough. We need a few moments to get back into the zone, but after we do, we spent another twenty minutes with productive training. By the time we leave the riding arena, there's no camera to be seen and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Leading Blacky back to his stable, I take off his saddle and groom him, slipping him an extra treat or three for having been a good horse. With Blacky happily settled, I climb up to the changing room to get my non-riding clothes out of my locker and get changed into them. It seems nonsensical, considering I'm set to go riding with Ken later, but before that, there's lunch up at the castle and riding gear isn't the best attire for eating. (Mostly because it smells.)

Having changed, I quickly check my phone. There's a message from Mum asking to confirm a time for our call tomorrow, one from Lucy asking to crash at my place after next Friday's exhibition opening, another from Nia asking how am I and lastly, one from my colleague Meggie asking to recommend a venue for the twelfth birthday party of a stockbroker's daughter.

I answer them all, then skip down the stairs to where my bike is parked. With Persis's equine training centre situated a little to the south of Windsor Castle, it's too far to walk, but it's a comfortable bike ride. The direct path takes one up the Long Walk and while I sometimes prefer to make a detour if I want to avoid the stares, I'm feeling relaxed about them today, so chose to take the quickest way and proceed to cycle to the Long Walk.

Sometimes, I have to admit, it's a bit funny to see people's faces when they recognise me. They tend to look like they've seen a ghost. I also feel a quiet sense of satisfaction at seeing the tourists press their noses against the gates in front of the palace, only to have them open for me without so much as a word. At times, I even have to supress the urge to wave as I whisk past.

Once in the palace, I ask one of the housemaids – her name is Bethany – where Ken is and am directed to Owen's private office. Inside, I find both Owen and Ken bend over a desk that is covered in pages of paper.

"Rilla!" exclaims Owen when I slip inside the room. "You're Heaven-sent!"

I am?

Feeling a little apprehensive, I walk closer and try to get a glimpse at some of those pages. "Can I help you?" I ask hesitatingly.

"Funny you should ask," replies Owen without missing a beat. "In fact, we could use some help."

Yes, it does look like it. His desk is a mess.

"What are you doing?" I ask, gingerly picking up one of the pages. It's a list of names.

Ken reaches out to lightly brush his fingers against my free hand in greeting. "We're trying to figure out the guest list for November," he answers.

Both Leslie and Ken are celebrating a milestone birthday in late November – his thirtieth and her sixtieth – and there's a joint party planned. By the looks of it, it will be a large one. There will be a buffet and dancing and apparently, fancy dress of the kind where 'fancy' is to be taken literally.

"Isn't it a bit late to send out invites?" I query. After all, the party in just a little over two months.

"It's a tad spontaneous, but I think it will be fine," claims Owen with the assuredness of someone for whom people will definitely adjust any and all pre-made plans. He's probably right, too - whoever gets an invite to this shinding will make sure they are free to attend, even if it means cancelling on someone else.

"It will be fine if we manage to work out a guest list beforehand," Ken amends and grimaces slightly.

I let go of the list of names and look up at him, not without surprise. "You have events with guests all the time," I remark. "This should be easy for you."

"Ah, but for official events, we're given the guest list by the relevant government offices," Owen explains, his grimace mirroring Ken's, "and for private parties, we usually leave the planning to my wife."

Leslie is nowhere to be seen.

"Mum left us an hour ago," Ken answers my unspoken question. "She said to have a guest list ready when she returns."

"Lost patience with the two of you, did she?" I ask, not doing much to hide my grin.

Owen and Ken exchange a pained look. "She might have gotten a little exasperated with us," Owen admits reluctantly.

And now they want me to take over?

Well.

"Let me see," I order, pointing at the lists of names spread out over the desk.

"We need to narrow those down to considerably." Ken hands me a wad of papers.

"Which I'm sure the two of you are more than qualified to do," adds Owen cheerfully. "In fact, why don't I leave you to it?"

Ken looks up and opens his mouth to protest, but his father is already heading for the door, waving at us before he leaves the room.

"Did he just…?" Ken stares at the closed door, taken aback.

"He did," I confirm, already trying to sort through the haphazard collection of papers.

"He can't just leave this to us!" protests Ken.

I look up briefly. "Evidently he can, because he just did," I inform him. "And besides, this is your birthday party, isn't it? Not his – and not mine either."

"Mine and Mum's," corrects Ken, sounding a tad petulant.

"I'll sub for you mother," I promise.

He pulls a face, which makes him look like he's suffering from a bad case of toothache. "Don't ever say that again."

Shaking my head at him, I nevertheless can't help laughing. "Okay, I won't."

Ken, however, still looks put out. "I didn't even ask for this party," he grumbles. "If I had my way, I'd invite no-one but you – preferably to a very, very lonely island somewhere in the Pacific."

"No reason why we can't do both," I reply blithely. "But for now, duty calls."

He glares darkly.

"Oh, come on," I encourage, laughing. "If you're a good boy, I promise to come up with a special birthday surprise for you."

That reliably makes him perk up. "What kind of surprise?"

"Well, it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you!" I tease.

He gives me another glare, but I just laugh it off and turn to the desk. Spreading all papers out in a somewhat orderly way, I ask, "What have we got here?"

There's a moment of hesitation from Ken, but then he sighs and relents. Coming up behind me, he slips a hand to lie on my waist, but obediently bends to look at the long, long lists of names.

"Those are all the people we thought might get an invite," he explains. "But there are too many to fit."

"In that case," I rub my hands together and flex my fingers, "let's see what we can do."

Pulling out a chair, I plonk down on it and frown at the papers. "First of all, we need to group them into categories. We have your friends, your mother's friends, your family –"

"Your family," interjects Ken, as he drags over a chair for himself.

"At least those members of my family who can afford to slink over to London for a simple party," I amend, but I'm smiling. I love how naturally he includes my family in this.

"If it were simple, it wouldn't be so hard," mutters Ken.

"Don't be defeatist, dear," I chide him. (It's a phrase I picked up from Great-Aunt Tanya and it amuses me considerably.) Ken rolls his eyes at me, a smile tugging at his lips.

Pointing at the papers, I continue, "We have friends and family. Next up are charity representatives and –" I peer at the list in front of me "– and government officials?"

Raising my head, I look at Ken, incredulous. "Really? At a birthday party?"

He shrugs. "That Pacific island is starting to look ever more appealing, isn't it?"

Yeah, he kind of has a point there.

But instead of agreeing, I decidedly shake my head. "We're doing this," I inform Ken briskly. "We'll just make sure to invite not a single government person more than we absolutely need to."

"Sounds like a plan I can get behind," he acknowledges.

"Good." I rummage through the mess on the desk until I have found two pens, several clean sheets of papers and three coloured markers.

"Okay, listen up." I hand Ken a pen and some clean pages. "First of all, we'll go through these lists and rewrite them in a way that makes sense. One page for family, one for friends and so on. Then we decide how many people we can invite from each group and start marking the names according to how likely the person is to be invited. We try to include all the 'yeses' and see how many 'maybes' make the cut. Anyone we don't like and can get away with not inviting, we make a 'no'. Got it?"

Ken salutes snappily. "Aye, aye, Colonel Blythe!"

I arch an eyebrow upwards. "Just colonel?"

"Admiral Blythe?" he tries.

"Better," I approve. "And now, go to work."

"Ma'am! Yes, Ma'am!" Another salute.

I roll my eyes at him, but can't help a smile.

Thankfully, he's done with the antics and does, indeed, go to work as told. I quickly follow suit and for the next half an hour, we work through the hundreds of names, making reasonable progress.

By the time Owen comes back, we aren't finished, but we've gotten the chaos pretty well organised.

"How is it going?" he asks brightly.

"Better since you left," Ken remarks, dead-pan.

Owen laughs. "Better than Rilla joined, I'd say," he counters.

I smile modestly. Ken grins, but doesn't disagree.

"We're making progress," I inform Owen. "I think we should get it done today."

"Excellent." Owen nods approvingly. "Persis is coming up as well. The TV crew just took a lunch break."

"Is it going well so far?" I enquire. "I'm honestly still surprised she agreed to do this. It seems so…"

When I trail off, Ken suggests, "So unlike Persis?"

"Yes. Very unlike Persis," I agree.

Owen looks thoughtful. "We have to react to the goodwill as it comes and Persis knows that," he explains. "She got a lot of good press and interest after winning that silver medal, which she can leverage to her advantage. Being shier and more private than Ken and Teddy, she is more of an enigma to the public and has been criticised for that. This TV program allows them to get to know her in a relatively safe setting. Additionally, she's in her element with the horses, which I hope means she's more relaxed on camera than she otherwise would be."

"That makes sense," I agree slowly, even as I silently sympathise with people-shy Persis having to do something so unlike herself, just because her position asks it of her. It's one of the perils of royalty, I guess, but I know it probably took a lot for her to do this.

"But you're making sure to keep control about which scenes they air, aren't you?" Ken wants to know, his brows knitted into a frown.

"Of course," replies Owen. "In fact…" He pauses for a moment, then looks at me. "In fact, I came to ask Rilla to give permission to allow the scene featuring her to be shown in the documentary."

Next to me, I feel Ken tense. Placing a soothing hand on his thigh, I turn to Owen. "Why is that?" I'm not too enthused by the idea, but at least I want to hear him out.

"Persis told me that the name of her new horse came up and that the moderator suggested it could be taken to be offensive." Owen's expression is serious.

"The name is unfortunate, but why can't you just make them take that question out of the final version?" Ken wants to know.

"You know why," Owen answers calmly. "It will come up again if she competes on that horse and once it does, no-one will listen to any of her explanations. If the allegation is out there, no explanation will get it back into the box."

Slowly, reluctantly, Ken nods. "How will featuring Rilla help with that?" he asks.

"I explained the name and how it relates to Edward the Black Prince," I tell him. I think I'm starting to see where Owen is heading.

"That's what Persis said as well," Owen confirms. "I hope that with the explanation delivered together with the question, it won't become as much of an issue. No-one has any time to speculate if we clear it up immediately."

"Hmm…" Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "I guess that makes sense."

"It does," I agree, my eyes finding Owen's. "If it helps Persis, you can include me."

Ken covers my hand with his own and gives it a quick squeeze.

"Thank you!" Owen smiles warmly. "You're really turning out to be our saviour today. First Persis and her horses and then Ken and me with that guest list. I wonder whatever we'd do without you."

"Oh, you'd be lost," I reply, laughing.

"Utterly," agrees Ken. He's smiling, but there's sincerity in his eyes. "Utterly, utterly lost."


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Wild Horses' (written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, released by the Rolling Stones in 1971).


To Mammu:
It's so lovely to hear from you again! I figured you were probably busy in these weird times, but I have been thinking about you in the past two weeks especially, wondering if you're okay. Of course, you don't have to justify your whereabouts to people on the internet, but it was still a relief to hear from you!
Life really is crazy at the moment, isn't it? I'm lucky in that my usual routine continues mostly as before, which gives me something to hold on to, but I understand that's different for you. I have my fingers crossed that things quieten down soon, for all of us, but you especially. How is the general situation where you are? From what I read, you seem to have the virus under good control, but I appreciate that that's hard to judge from the outside. What about restrictions? Are they still manageable or are they affecting your life a lot? Also, you mentioned being worried about your parents, so I really, really hope they aren't ill or otherwise unwell!
I wish you a lot of strength and, above everything, health for you and your family. It's tough, but we have to hang in there. I mean, it's got to be over someday, right?