A strange thought occurred to Alfie as he flew backward across the broad oak table, into a bookshelf. I’ve never been punched in the face before.

He’d had the odd scrap with his brother when they were growing up, of course (he always lost), and Mortimer was hardly gentle, but a full-blooded fist thrown in anger at the bridge of his nose? That was a new experience, and not one he wanted to repeat in a hurry. Harrow School’s Vaughan Library was probably not the best place for his first public brawl either—but then, he hadn’t come here looking for a fight.

Alfie had been trying to lie low all day. The school was buzzing with rumors: King Henry was heard shouting at his son (true); Alfie was being suspended (not true); King Henry had chased Alfie around the headmaster’s office and spanked him (oh, please). The rest of the day had been a write-off; how could you pay attention to lessons when everyone was snickering behind your back? All he wanted to do was crawl into a deep hole and never come out, and the closest thing he could find to that was the school library.

“Prince AWOL! Thought we’d agreed, no more secret outings.”

Alfie sighed and looked around. Brian was marching after him in the economical style the army had taught him years ago.

“It’s all right, Brian. No more pizza runs for me. I’m going to the library.” Alfie held up his schoolbag. “So you can be ‘at ease,’ or do whatever it is you guys do.”

Brian made a show of scanning the area. “Hitting the books, eh? Shall I alert the newspapers? This is quite the event. Oh, and by the way, we say ‘stand down.’ ” Brian walked off whistling as Alfie went inside.

The library was as quiet as he’d hoped it would be. There was only a scattering of other boys here: teenage book geeks, homesick overseas students, and anyone too weedy to play rugby. Misfits one and all. I fit right in, thought Alfie. He found a study desk tucked away in the far corner and settled down to work.

Despite the day he’d had, Alfie quickly became absorbed in one of the books from Professor Lock’s reading list. It was all about his namesake, King Alfred the Great, and the Viking invasion that had swept down from Scandinavia and across Britain. On Christmas Day, Alfred had been ambushed by the Vikings and forced into hiding with a small band of loyal men. They’d found an island in the middle of a marsh in the West Country and lived off the land before launching a counterattack. Alfie ran his fingers over a picture of King Alfred, an ancient woodcut that showed the bearded king sitting in a peasant’s hovel, long hair unkempt, looking deep into a fire.

How weird that I’m related to you, thought Alfie. He was generations and generations down the line, but still descended from a man in a history book, linked together by an invisible, incalculably long cosmic rope. You hid in a swamp. I’m lying low in a library—

“Evening, Princess.”

Mortimer was standing behind him, beaming with cruel pleasure. Alfie lurched to his feet, but Mortimer shoved him back down.

“Don’t get up, Your Lordship.”

Behind Mortimer, some of his sheeplike followers had also materialized and were giggling like their leader had just dropped the funniest joke bomb in the history of laughs. Alfie was surrounded. The panic-button-enabled cell phone was in his bag, out of reach. He was ashamed that he felt so scared. What kind of person needs a bodyguard to protect him from other kids, anyway?

Sensing something in Alfie’s look, Mortimer smiled. “Oh dear, your brother not here to fight your battle for you?” One of Mortimer’s goons wedged the library door shut with a fire extinguisher.

Images flickered through Alfie’s mind of the next five minutes: his head in a toilet, being made to kiss a toilet brush; maybe they’d strip his clothes and leave him naked outside. Imagine the headlines that would make.

A sudden surge of anger rose up in him. He’d never gone out of his way to provoke this thug. If I wasn’t Prince of Wales, he wouldn’t even know I existed. He was sick of all the looks and whispers. He was tired of feeling so … so powerless. Alfie’s fist clenched, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was cocking his arm back and unleashing a full-on punch, aimed straight at Mortimer’s stupid nose. Everything slowed down. He even had a chance to savor the look of dumb alarm on Mortimer’s face as his fist closed in and …

Swish. Missed. Mortimer sidestepped it easily.

Alfie stumbled over, the momentum of his unsuccessful punch unbalancing him. Mortimer’s crew burst out laughing. Alfie was tempted to join in—it was the miss to end all misses. But Mortimer wasn’t laughing, and his stare was pure evil. Which is why he thumped the heir to the throne of Great Britain and Northern Ireland clean across the desk and into a bookshelf.

None of the library geeks were quick enough to catch the moment on their phones, but by the time Alfie had found his feet and launched his own rather clumsy rugby tackle at Mortimer’s legs, a dozen recording devices were ready to capture it for posterity. The first video of the “unprovoked attack” by the Prince of Wales on an “innocent fellow pupil” would be online fewer than seven seconds later.

Alfie had picked himself up, but was backed against a wall, like a fox surrounded by a pack of hounds.

Mortimer towered over him. “You’re pathetic, Princess.” He looked at his friends. “And to think this loser is supposed to be king one day!”

“I don’t want to be king,” Alfie yelled. “I just want to be left alone!”

He lunged at Mortimer again, but as he did, a sudden, immense pain speared through his chest. He doubled over, crying out in agony. A wave of intense cold swept over him, as if his entire body had been plunged into ice. His limbs went rigid and he fell to the floor, shaking. His vision blurred—he couldn’t see, couldn’t think—there was nothing but the overwhelming sensation of stabbing pain.

The others looked at each other, confused.

“You expect us to fall for that? Get up,” Mortimer scoffed.

Tony, the Chinese boy from Alfie’s class, ran out from under the desk where he’d been hiding and went nose to nose with Mortimer—well, nose to belly button, anyway.

“Leave him alone! Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

Mortimer laughed and swatted Tony to the side. Alfie tried to say something—“Help me, I’m dying, heart attack”—but all that came out was a low moan. His skin was gray, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

“Stand up, you wuss,” Mortimer said, but even he sounded a little less sure now.

CRASH. The library door splintered open and the next thing Alfie knew, Mortimer was being lifted away from him and thrust against an appalled-looking marble bust of the school’s founder.

Brian tightened his grip on Mortimer’s collar and hissed into his ear. “Unless you want to spend the rest of the night inside a cell at the local prison, I suggest you leave. Now.”

With that, Brian tossed Mortimer in the general direction of the door and turned his attention to Alfie, who was breathing easier but still in a daze. It was like he was seeing the world through somebody else’s eyes; everything was out of focus, the colors intense.

Tony knelt down next to Brian. “He had some kind of fit. Is he all right?”

“He’ll live.” Brian wrapped an arm around Alfie’s shoulders. “Can you stand? We need to go.”

Brian held him up as they hurried out into the cold air. Every step Alfie took was an effort. Professor Lock appeared, walking past the library. He eyed the young prince, concerned. “Are you OK, Alfie?”

Alfie tried to lift his head to the friendly voice, but Brian was pushing him on, toward the playing fields. Where were they going? Alfie was just summoning up the strength to ask, when suddenly he thought he sensed something rushing toward him out of the dark: something immense and powerful, searching for him, homing in on him. But when he looked back, there was nothing there.

“Brian … ,” Alfie croaked. “What’s happening?” But the low whump-whump-whump of rotor blades cut through the night’s air, blowing away his words. A helicopter was coming in to land, the downdraft whipping up a tornado of twigs and grass cuttings. Brian hauled Alfie into the chopper and moments later they were high in the air, the lights of Harrow disappearing far beneath them.

Alfie tried to speak again, his voice weak. “Where are we going?”

“The palace.”

“Why?”

“It’s your father … ”

Alfie didn’t need Brian to help him when they landed in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. His strength had come back and he leapt off the chopper. He ran through the music room and up the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time, ignoring the lingering pain in his chest. All he could think of was the last conversation he’d had with his father.

Inside the grand entrance hall, the household staff were up, despite the hour. Alfie was aware of them standing there, as if on parade, but his eyes were focused only on the stairs that led to his father’s bedroom.

“Prince Alfred.” The Lord Chamberlain’s clipped voice. Alfie ignored it. There was no time tonight for that meddling old codger and his lectures on correct etiquette and protocol. He must see his dad.

“Alfie!”

Alfie stopped and turned back down the steps. It was Richard, still in his sports gear, dried mud on his knees and his face uncharacteristically pale. Ellie was next to him, wearing her pajamas under a long coat, her eyes red from crying. They were holding hands.

The Lord Chamberlain stepped forward, stiff in his formal attire. “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you, but … ” The old man’s voice faltered for the briefest moment. “The king, your father, is dead.”

For the second time that night, Alfie’s legs rocked beneath him and he sat down on the thick carpet of the staircase. He felt like he was being pulled into a long tunnel, the Lord Chamberlain’s words echoing in his ears from somewhere very far away. The old man bowed his head. The rest of the staff followed suit.

“Your Majesty.”