Most OF MY TEACHERS WERE kind souls who just let me be, who understood all that I was dealing with and didn’t want to give me more. Mr. Dawson, who

played the organ in the chapel, was extremely gentle. Mr. Little, the drum teacher, was exceedingly patient. Confined to a wheelchair, he’d turn up for drum lessons in his van, and it would take us forever to get him out of the van and into the classroom, and then we’d have to leave enough time to get him back into the van after the lesson, so we’d never have more than twenty minutes of actual teaching. I didn’t mind, and in return Mr. Little didn’t ever complain that my drumming wasn’t really improving.

Some teachers, however, gave me no quarter. Like my history teacher, Mr.

Hughes-Games.

Day and night, from Mr. Hughes-Games’s bungalow beside the sports fields, came the shrill yelps of his pointers, Tosca and Beade. They were beautiful, spotted, gray-eyed, and Mr. Hughes-Games cherished them as children. He kept silver-framed photos of them on his desk, which was one reason many boys thought Mr. Hughes-Games a tad eccentric. So it came as a roaring shock when I realized that Mr. Hughes-Games believed me to be the odd one. What could be odder, he said to me one day, than a British prince not knowing British history?

I cannot fathom it, Wales. We’re talking about your blood relatives—does that mean nothing to you?

Less than nothing, sir.

It wasn’t just that I didn’t know anything about my family’s history: I didn’t want to know anything.

I liked British history in theory. I found certain bits intriguing. I knew a few things about the signing of the Magna Carta, for instance—June 1215, at Runnymede—but that was because I’d once glimpsed the place where it happened through the window of Pa’s car. Right by the river. Looked beautiful. Perfect spot

to establish peace, I thought. But micro details about the Norman Conquest? Or the ins and outs of the beef between Henry VIII and the Pope? Or the differences between the First and Second Crusades?

Please.

It all came to a head one day when Mr. Hughes-Games was talking about Charles Edward Stuart, or Charles III, as he thought of himself. Pretender to the Throne. Mr. Hughes-Games had strong opinions about the fellow. While he shared them with us, in a hot rage, I stared at my pencil and tried not to fall asleep.

Suddenly Mr. Hughes-Games stopped and posited a question about Charles’s life. The answer was a cinch if you’d done the reading. No one had.

Wales—you must know this. Why must I?

Because it’s your family!

Laughter.

I dropped my head. The other boys knew I was royal, of course. If they forgot for half a second, my omnipresent bodyguard (armed) and uniformed police scattered across the grounds would be more than happy to remind them. But did Mr. Hughes-Games need to shout it from the rooftops? Did he need to use that loaded word—family? My family had declared me a nullity. The Spare. I didn’t complain about it, but I didn’t need to dwell on it either. Far better, in my mind, not to think about certain facts, such as the cardinal rule for royal travel: Pa and William could never be on the same flight together, because there must be no chance of the first and second in line to the throne being wiped out. But no one gave a damn whom I traveled with; the Spare could always be spared. I knew this, knew my place, so why go out of my way to study it? Why memorize the names of past spares? What was the sense in that?

More, why trace my family tree when all tracery led to the same severed branch

—Mummy?

After class I went up to Mr. Hughes-Games’s desk and asked him to please stop.

Stop what, Wales? Embarrassing me, sir.

His eyebrows flew up to his hairline, like startled birds.

I argued that it would be cruel to single out any other boy the way he did me, to ask any other student at Ludgrove such pointed questions about his great-great-grand-whatever.

Mr. Hughes-Games harrumphed and snuffled. He’d overstepped, he knew it.

But he was stubborn.

It’s good for you, Wales. The more I call on you, the more you’ll learn.

Days later, however, at the start of class, Mr. Hughes-Games made a proffer of peace, Magna Carta style. He presented me with one of those wooden rulers, engraved along both sides with the names of every British monarch since Harold in 1066. (Rulers, get it?) The royal line, inch by inch, right up to Granny. He said I could keep it at my desk, refer to it as needed.

Gosh, I said. Thanks.