Chapter Nine

The damage to Titus, the Queen found, was very little. Prissy and the other corgis had mostly pitched in to poor Chum, who was looking rather the worse for wear. As well as having had an ear quite badly bitten by Titus (from then on it always drooped a bit), he had had a number of nips to nose and paws, and the Queen spent some time attending to him that evening. She also commanded the two footmen to see a doctor, and she made sure that her elderly Comptroller was none the worse for his fall.

Not till all this was done did she go to enquire after her husband. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself, did you, Philip?’ she asked when they met in her sitting room.

‘Luckily, no.’

‘How did you come to fall?’

‘Old Collimore tripped me up,’ replied the Duke of Edinburgh. ‘Wasn’t his fault, it was all due to those blasted corgis of yours, Madge. I expect that one you call Titus started it. I just wish you’d get rid of the whole pack of them.’

‘Get rid of them?’ said the Queen.

‘Yes, give ’em away to someone. Why don’t you give ’em to Charles? They’re Welsh, he’s the Prince of Wales – send ’em all down to Highgrove. Or give ’em to Anne. Or Andrew. Or Edward. Or whatshername, the Duchess of Thingamajig, you know?’

The Queen drew herself up to her full modest height. ‘Generally speaking, Philip,’ she said in an icy voice, ‘you do not forget yourself to this extent. May I remind you that I am Queen of England and will not be spoken to in this way. How dare you suggest that I should part with my beloved corgis!’

‘Only joking, Madge,’ said her husband.

‘A joke,’ said the Queen, ‘in the poorest of taste.’ And she swept out of the room.

Left to himself, Prince Philip stood, wryly regarding his reflection in a looking glass on the wall. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘The old girl still packs a pretty good broadside. It’s a wonder she didn’t tell me to “Sit!” or “Stay!” ’ He rang a bell.

Shortly, there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ shouted the Duke, and in came the red-haired footman, two of his fingers bandaged.

The Duke looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Are you married?’ he asked.

‘Married, Your Royal Highness?’ said Patrick. ‘No, sir, I am not.’

‘Well, take my advice and don’t bother. Or if you do, make sure that you’re master in your own house. Now, get me a drink and run me a nice hot bath. I’ve had enough of today.’

When the Queen returned later, she found the red-haired footman on his knees, making up the fire. He sprang to his feet.

‘Where is Prince Philip, Patrick?’ the Queen asked.

The Duke of Edinburgh’s private bathroom chanced to be immediately above that particular sitting room in Windsor Castle, and the footman instinctively gave an upward look at the ceiling as he answered, ‘His Royal Highness is taking a bath, Your Majesty.’

‘Thank you, Patrick,’ said the Queen. ‘You may leave the fire now, I’ll see to it. How are your fingers, by the way?’

‘Sure they’re fine, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.’

‘And John’s had his seen to?’

‘Yes, ma’am. The doctor bandaged us both up. A nasty nip he said it was,’ the footman told her, and he bowed and left the room, backwards.

The Queen sat down and patted her lap and Titus jumped up on to it. ‘What a dreadful business! Whoever nipped the footmen’s fingers, I’m sure it wasn’t you, dear boy. It was probably poor old Chum. I wonder what that rumpus was all about? Pity you can’t tell me.’

Somehow Titus had a pretty good idea what the servant was saying. I’m sure you’d understand why I went for Chum, he thought. You’d do the same if someone had called your mother a silly old fool.

The Queen and her dog sat comfortably together before the fire, and before long the Royal eyes began to close. What with one thing and another, it had been a rather exhausting day for Her Majesty, and she dozed off. Titus, too, felt tired after the fight and, as he settled happily on the Royal lap, he sleepily thought, Now I’m a lapdog. He was about to take a snooze when suddenly he heard a noise.

It was only a little noise, a sort of plop, the sound a drip of water makes. He opened his eyes and saw that there was indeed a drip of water falling on to the carpet of the sitting room. He looked up and saw another drop fall, and another, and another, until there was a steady stream of water falling from a rapidly growing patch of damp on the ceiling, that ceiling that was directly below Prince Philip’s private bathroom.