I STOOD AT THE ALTAR, smoothed the front of my Household Cavalry uniform, watched Meg floating towards me. I’d worked hard to choose the right music for her procession, and ultimately I’d landed on Handel’s Eternal Source of Light Divine. Now, as the soloist’s voice rang out above our heads, I thought I’d chosen well. Indeed, as Meg came nearer and nearer, I was giving thanks for all my choices.
Amazing that I could even hear the music over the sound of my own heartbeat as Meg stepped up, took my hand.
The present dissolved, the past came rushing back. Our first tentative messages on Instagram. Our first meeting at Soho House. Our first trip to Botswana. Our first excited exchanges after my phone went into the river. Our first roast chicken. Our first flights back and forth across the Atlantic. The first time I told her: I love you. Hearing her say it back. Guy in splints. Steve the grumpy swan. The brutal fight to keep her safe from the press. And now here we were, the finishing line. The starting line. For the last few months, not much had gone according to plan. But I reminded myself that none of that was the plan. This was the plan. This. Love. I shot a glance at Pa, who’d walked Meg down the last part of the aisle. Not her father, but special just the same, and she was moved. It didn’t make up for her father’s behavior, for how the press had used him, but it very much helped.
Aunt Jane stood and gave a reading in honor of Mummy. Song of Solomon. Meg and I chose it.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away…
Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm;
For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave…
Strong as death. Fierce as the grave. Yes, I thought. Yes. I saw the archbishop extend the rings, his hands shaking. I’d forgotten, but he clearly hadn’t: twelve cameras pointed at us, two billion people watching on TV, photographers in the rafters, massive crowds outside roistering and cheering. We exchanged the rings, Meg’s made from the same hunk of Welsh gold that had provided Kate’s. Granny had told me that this was nearly the last of it. Last of the gold. That was how I felt about Meg. The archbishop reached the official part, spoke the few words that made us The Duke and Duchess of Sussex, titles bestowed by Granny, and he joined us until death parted us, though he’d already done similar days earlier, in our garden, a small ceremony, just the two of us, Guy and Pula the only witnesses. Unofficial, non-binding, except in our souls.
We were grateful for every person in and around St. George’s, and watching on TV, but our love began in private, and being public had been mostly pain, so we wanted the first consecration of our love, the first vows, to be private as well. Magical as the formal ceremony was, we’d both come to feel slightly frightened of…crowds. Underscoring this feeling: The first thing we saw upon walking back up the aisle and out of the church, other than a stream of smiling faces, were snipers. On the rooftops, amid the bunting, behind the waterfalls of streamers.
Police told me it was unusual, but necessary. Due to the unprecedented number of threats they were picking up.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
www.dailymail.co.uk
)
