The Sergeant Major barks more commands. This is a full-bore Military event. There are no civilian dignitaries present, although there are plenty of civilians.

       The Princess Royal is not going to inspect troops. She stands in silence, looking at a stand of trees and masses of people. Fred wonders what she is pondering. She thinks it has something to do with hearing ‘God Save The King’. The Princess Royal has helped bury two of them – and a Queen.

       “Sergeant Major?”

       “Ma’am.” The Sergeant Major is startled, but never too startled for words.

       “Put them at ease.”

       Even a Sergeant Major can not be prepared for everything, but the Sergeant Major acts immediately to the unexpected and strange request. He bellows his exact and time-worn orders, and both troops and band return to at-ease positions.

       “Fred, let’s take a look at this Memorial.”

       “Yes, Ma’am.”

       The Princess Royal gestures for both her Aide-de-Camp, and the General waiting in the wings, to accompany them. Fred knows HRH desires this event be as simple as possible, but she doubts local officials anticipated anything this simple. Even the couple thousand standing on the grass, walkways, and among the trees, sense this is a unique event. There is barely a murmur.

       Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel feels that something should be said. They should be seen to be talking. Such silence is, quite frankly, weird.

       “This is all for a horse?” Fred knows the answer, but doesn’t know what The Princess Royal really thinks.

       “Oh, so much more.” She looks at Fred. “A horse of hope. At war’s end, a horse of triumph.”

       Fred now knows what is going on. The horse, named Princess Louise after the regiment that found her, had been wounded on a battlefield in Italy. It had been found in a field standing beside its dead mother. Members of the regiment, so many of them farm boys from the country, spirited the horse away. Tended to its wounds. Fed and watered it. Put it into an enclosed truck and took it wherever they went.

       Officers pretended to know nothing.

       At war’s end, Princess Louise, alive and healthy, was put on a ship and ended in New York. From New York she was transported to Saint John, and from Saint John twenty miles away she ended her trip in Hampton, where she got a bale of hay, a bag of oats and was made a ‘naturalized Canadian’. She was given the “. . .  God-given right to trample and eat from any and all vegetable gardens.” She died at 29 in 1973, and is buried at The Princess Royal’s feet.

       “A mascot,” says Fred.

       “And, I think, a friend.” The Princess Royal chuckles. “They say she liked some whiskey and beer.”

       “Sounds like a good life.”

       “Eventually – yes.”

       The Princess Royal’s Aide de Camp approaches, accompanied by an older man.

       “Your Royal Highness, this is Mr. Finton. He looked after Princess Louise the last years of her life.”

       “I’d call her Lou.”

       “Hello, Mr. Finton.” The Princess Royal extends her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

       “But always Princess Louise around other people.”

       “I understand.”

       “She was special.” Mr. Finton glances at Fred, glances at the Aide de Camp. “There was always respect paid.”

       “That is appreciated.”

       “I have something for you.”

       “Oh, yes?”

       Fred and the Aide de Camp look far more surprised than The Princess Royal. This was not part of any plan. Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel likes to create surprises – likes to spring them for effect – but she doesn’t enjoy them.

       “I understand you like horses.”

       “I do.”

       “Then Princess Louise would feel good if you have this.”

         Mr. Finton reaches toward an inside pocket of his jacket. Fred notices members of the Security Detail tense up and move closer. The Aide de Camp immediately puts himself between The Princess Royal and the man. Fred remembers that she is to duck and cover. Endeavour has told her often enough. And to roll. He has even made an interesting game out of it.

       Mr. Finton takes out a hand-sized package, wrapped in brown paper. There is twine around it, tied into a neat bow at the top,

       “I hope that you will like this, your Royal Highness. I think you can get nothing more personal.”

       Unexpected gifts are not to be given, and certainly not to be received. It could be dangerous. It could be insulting. It could be embarrassing. The Princess Royal does not hesitate to take it in her hands.

       But then, she gives it directly back.

       “Perhaps you will undo it.”

       “Yes, your Royal Highness.”

       Mr. Finton retrieves the package without looking at her. He is slow to untie the knot, but pays attention to no one around him. Perhaps he has forgotten them. The hundreds of people have gone silent. The only sound is the breeze through the trees.

       Holding the twine in one hand, he hands back the package.

       “I apologize for any inconvenience.”

       “Think nothing of it.” She looks directly into his eyes. “These gloves were not made for untying string.”

       The Princess Royal takes the package and opens up the brown paper. Inside is a commercial blue jeweller’s box, with a store name and the image of a diamond imprinted on it.

       “Are we to be engaged?”

       Mr. Finton is momentarily at a loss, then barks out a deep laugh.

       “Lord love a duck.” He shakes his head. “No, no, no.” He covers his mouth as another laugh escapes. “It’s the only decent box I could find.”

       “My husband will be glad to hear that.”

       The Princess Royal shifts her shoulder bag, then opens the box.

       “My God.” The Princess Royal laughs. “Straight from the horses’ mouth.”

       “It was one of her favourites.”

       The Princess Royal takes it from the box. She shows it to Fred.

       “It’s a mullen.”

       “Ma’am?” Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel is at a loss for words – an unusual state for her to be in. She has seen nothing like the object in her life.

       “A horse’s bit, held inside the animal’s mouth to control the reins.”        “I tried a number over a co

of years.” Mr. Finton rubs the metal. He glances at Fred and then looks at The Princess Royal. “I could tell this was the most comfortable.”

       “Did you ever ride Princess Louise, Mr. Finton[?’

       “I wasn’t supposed to.”

       “But?”

       “I was to exercise her every day. She was stabled out at a farm, some miles from here. Big pasture. Just walking seemed to be a bore.”

       “For you?”

       “Well – yes.” Mr. Finton pauses. “But, I think, for both of us.” He speaks quickly. “And I knew some of the soldiers had ridden her in Italy, when she was healed.”

       “Did she like it?” Fred is curious.

       “Yes.” Mr. Finton turns to her. “Absolutely.” He looks back to The Princess Royal. “Always gave me a nudge every day after that.” He has a smile on his face. “Always a gentle ride, mind. She was no filly.”

       “My mother liked to keep riding.” The Princess Royal smiles. “She was no filly, either.”

       “She was a great woman.” Mr. Finton bows his head.

       “Yes.” The Princess Royal puts the mullen back into the box. “She was.”

       The Princess Royal steps forward a few steps to look closely at the memorial. She has complete interest in what she reads, but this is also the signal that the event is coming to a close. Her Aide de Camp and the security detail prepare to leave. Discrete orders are spoken into microphones. Some car engines start on the street.

~ Dale Estey