Game of Crowns: Elizabeth, Camilla, Kate, and the Throne by Christopher Andersen Page A
Authors: Christopher Andersen
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secretary, Michael Parker, gazed in wonder at the sight of the equatorial sun beginning its ascent on the horizon.
Just as everything began to turn an eerie, shimmering pink, a white eagle darted out of the sky. For a moment, it seemed as if it might dive down and attack Parker and the royal Princess, but instead it just made lazy circles above them before flying offtoward the sun. “That was very strange,” Elizabeth said at the time, unaware that it was at that moment that her father died at Sandringham—and she became queen at age twenty-five.
“Because of where we were,” said Pamela Hicks, a lady-in-waiting on the trip, “we were almost the last people in the world to know.” Their hotel in Kenya, Treetops, was nothing more than a series of structures built among the branches of a giant fig tree smack in the middle of the jungle. It was considered too dangerous for most tourists, who ran the risk of being attacked by wild animals coming to the salt lick at the base of the tree. It was also deep in rebel territory, and would actually be burned down during the bloody Mau Mau uprisings a year later.
It would be more than four hours before the news reached Parker, who told Philip immediately. “It will be the most appalling shock,” said Philip, who believed like everyone else at the time that the King’s lung cancer treatment had been successful and he was on the road to recovery. King George had actually spent an enjoyable day shooting pheasant at Sandringham, and after a pleasant, upbeat dinner with his wife and Elizabeth’s sister Margaret, went to bed at 10:30 p.m. Several hours later, however, he suffered a pulmonary embolism and died in his sleep. He was fifty-six.
The BBC was already broadcasting the news when Philip walked into Elizabeth’s hotel room and broke the news to her. The Prince would recall that she looked “pale and worried,” but did not cry. Philip took his wife through the garden down to the nearby Sagana River, where they walked slowly up and down the riverbank while he spoke words of comfort and reassurance to her.
Not long after, she was sitting bolt upright at the desk in her hotel room, pen in hand, while Philip sat on the sofa, calmlyreading the Times . Whenever anyone in their party expressed their condolences, Elizabeth apologized for having to cut the trip short. “I’m so sorry we’ve got to go back,” she said. “It’s ruining everybody’s plans.”
When Elizabeth’s private secretary, Martin Charteris, asked what name she wished to be known by as monarch, she looked puzzled. “My own, of course—what else?” she replied, apparently forgetting that her own father’s real name was Albert (“Bertie” to his family).
Later, on the twenty-four-hour flight home to London, Elizabeth would leave her seat several times to cry privately in the bathroom. But for now, she could not afford the luxury of self-pity. Whatever feelings of grief she had, Parker observed, were buried “deep, deep inside her.” Instead, sitting at her desk suspended in a fig tree in Kenya, she jotted down notes, fired off cables, and wrote letters in her loopy script—seizing her destiny, as Lord Charteris put it, “with both hands.”
No one knew what to expect—not even the then Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who wept at the news of the King’s passing and wondered aloud if Elizabeth was up to the task. “I don’t even know her,” he complained. “She’s only a child!”
Yet Elizabeth had already proved she was no pushover. When Philip insisted that their children be given his family name—Mountbatten (the Anglicized form of “Battenberg”)—Elizabeth followed Churchill’s advice and stood up to her husband, officially proclaiming that they would carry on the Windsor name. “Are you telling me,” he demanded in front of the Prime Minister, “that I am the only man in the country not allowed to give his name to his children? I’m nothing but a bloody
Just as everything began to turn an eerie, shimmering pink, a white eagle darted out of the sky. For a moment, it seemed as if it might dive down and attack Parker and the royal Princess, but instead it just made lazy circles above them before flying offtoward the sun. “That was very strange,” Elizabeth said at the time, unaware that it was at that moment that her father died at Sandringham—and she became queen at age twenty-five.
“Because of where we were,” said Pamela Hicks, a lady-in-waiting on the trip, “we were almost the last people in the world to know.” Their hotel in Kenya, Treetops, was nothing more than a series of structures built among the branches of a giant fig tree smack in the middle of the jungle. It was considered too dangerous for most tourists, who ran the risk of being attacked by wild animals coming to the salt lick at the base of the tree. It was also deep in rebel territory, and would actually be burned down during the bloody Mau Mau uprisings a year later.
It would be more than four hours before the news reached Parker, who told Philip immediately. “It will be the most appalling shock,” said Philip, who believed like everyone else at the time that the King’s lung cancer treatment had been successful and he was on the road to recovery. King George had actually spent an enjoyable day shooting pheasant at Sandringham, and after a pleasant, upbeat dinner with his wife and Elizabeth’s sister Margaret, went to bed at 10:30 p.m. Several hours later, however, he suffered a pulmonary embolism and died in his sleep. He was fifty-six.
The BBC was already broadcasting the news when Philip walked into Elizabeth’s hotel room and broke the news to her. The Prince would recall that she looked “pale and worried,” but did not cry. Philip took his wife through the garden down to the nearby Sagana River, where they walked slowly up and down the riverbank while he spoke words of comfort and reassurance to her.
Not long after, she was sitting bolt upright at the desk in her hotel room, pen in hand, while Philip sat on the sofa, calmlyreading the Times . Whenever anyone in their party expressed their condolences, Elizabeth apologized for having to cut the trip short. “I’m so sorry we’ve got to go back,” she said. “It’s ruining everybody’s plans.”
When Elizabeth’s private secretary, Martin Charteris, asked what name she wished to be known by as monarch, she looked puzzled. “My own, of course—what else?” she replied, apparently forgetting that her own father’s real name was Albert (“Bertie” to his family).
Later, on the twenty-four-hour flight home to London, Elizabeth would leave her seat several times to cry privately in the bathroom. But for now, she could not afford the luxury of self-pity. Whatever feelings of grief she had, Parker observed, were buried “deep, deep inside her.” Instead, sitting at her desk suspended in a fig tree in Kenya, she jotted down notes, fired off cables, and wrote letters in her loopy script—seizing her destiny, as Lord Charteris put it, “with both hands.”
No one knew what to expect—not even the then Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who wept at the news of the King’s passing and wondered aloud if Elizabeth was up to the task. “I don’t even know her,” he complained. “She’s only a child!”
Yet Elizabeth had already proved she was no pushover. When Philip insisted that their children be given his family name—Mountbatten (the Anglicized form of “Battenberg”)—Elizabeth followed Churchill’s advice and stood up to her husband, officially proclaiming that they would carry on the Windsor name. “Are you telling me,” he demanded in front of the Prime Minister, “that I am the only man in the country not allowed to give his name to his children? I’m nothing but a bloody
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