But nothing had prepared her for the reality of the sheer mass and scale of the castle, dark and shadowy in the gathering lavender twilight. It was tremendous. For just a moment, the heavy clouds parted and a beam of sunlight pierced through, illuminating the gray stone crenellated walls, battlements, turrets, parapets, and towers. The mullioned windows lit up with liquid gold.
It was the stuff of fairy tales, if you could overlook the heavy antiaircraft guns on the various roofs, along with Coldstream Guards in their tall bearskin hats on patrol. There was, after all, an evil sorcerer and his minions to guard against.
David went through the security checkpoints and drove Maggie up Windsor’s High Street, past the high stone walls of the castle’s Lower Ward. She couldn’t help but feel somewhat tiny and insignificant. “Just an old pile of rocks, Magster,” he said, sensing her apprehension.
“Of course,” she said. “And I have a job to do. Two, really.”
David took a left at the bronze statue of Queen Victoria and pulled up to the Henry VIII Gate, with its towers, arched windows, and carvings on the portcullis of the fleur-de-lis and the combined roses of Lancaster and York.
Maggie was overcome with the weight of the castle. Not the immense physical weight but its burden of history, violence, and power.
“See those holes?” David said to Maggie.
“Yes,” she said.
“Used for pouring boiling oil on unwelcome visitors.”
That, finally, got Maggie to smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
David drove past the Henry VIII Gate, through the Lower Ward and parade ground. They passed the changing of the guards, in their long gray coats and white sashes, with drums and fifes. Tires crunching on gravel, they drove past the Round Tower and the Middle Ward, through the Norman Gate. Under the unblinking eyes of stone grotesques and gargoyles, David pulled up the car and stopped at an unassuming double doorway of oak and glass: the tradesmen’s and servants’ entrance. They were greeted by a tall and slim older man in an elegant black morning coat and starched white collar. He had a beak-like nose, hooded eyes, and bushy silver eyebrows.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle,” he said solemnly, as he opened the car door. “You must be Miss Hope. We’ve been expecting you. I am Ainslie, the Royal Butler.” As the Royal Butler, Ainslie oversaw the castle’s male staff, which included footmen, underbutlers, pages, coal porters, fender smiths, a clock winder, and the so-called Vermin Man.
“Thank you, Mr. Ainslie,” Maggie said, taking his proffered white-gloved hand and getting out of the car.
“Just Ainslie, Miss.”
Ainslie went to the car’s trunk and took out her valise and a worn blue-leather hatbox full of photographs and ephemera. “Thank you,” she said.
“Yes, Miss.”
Maggie turned. “Thanks, David. For the ride, for everything—”
“My pleasure, Magster,” he replied, as he slid back into the driver’s seat. “Remember, KBO.”
That was
He gave her a puckish look over the rims of his round glasses. “You’ve earned the right, Magster.”
She spluttered laughter. “
“I’ve told you I was always terrible at Latin.”
“It means ‘Don’t let the bastards wear you down.’ “
He grinned at her. “I shan’t,” he answered. And with a quick toot of the horn, he drove off over the cobblestoned pavement, making his way back to the Long Walk.
As two footmen appeared and picked up her bags, Ainslie blinked. “Miss Hope, please follow me.”
They entered the castle through the servants’ entrance, passing through the porter’s room. Inside, as they walked the endless Gothic corridors, the air was chill, damp, and gloomy, with thick violet shadows. The dim wartime bulbs made the corridor look almost gaslit. Pictures had been removed and ornate gilt frames stood empty, like blind eyes, lining the hall in long perspectives. There were a seemingly infinite number of malachite pedestals minus their marble busts of royals and dignitaries. The high, ornate, gilded ceilings, like fondant on a society wedding cake, were besmirched with water stains.
The paneling was dark, almost black in the dim light. The air smelled of ancient stone, antique furniture, and wood polish—beeswax and turpentine. It smelled of majesty.
Here and there, doors were open and Maggie could peer into some of the rooms. There were holes in the ceiling, tangled wires dangling down like tree roots, where grand crystal chandeliers must have once hung. Cupboards and cabinets were turned to tapestry-covered walls. The high ceilings, high enough to induce vertigo, were adorned with scrolls, flourishes, and gilt. What furniture was left was covered with sheets, to protect it from dust.
As Maggie and Ainslie walked on, their footsteps echoing off the thick walls in the long, icy corridors, Maggie saw a large black spider skitter behind a heavy tattered velvet drape. They passed other rooms with shadowy figures of what had to be servants, ARP Wardens and volunteer firemen, blacking out the mullioned windows, the square panes of glass pierced by the last weak rays of the setting sun. Although no one knew the princesses were staying at Windsor Castle, it was on the flight path from German air bases to London and was, of course, recognizable from the air.
One older man, missing a few teeth, passed Maggie and Aislie. He touched a hand to his metal helmet and said, “By the time we get all the blackout curtains closed, miss, it’s morning again.” His voice echoed in the vast corridor, his breath visible in the frigid air.
Maggie smiled in return, but Ainslie shot him a stern glance and the man returned to his curtains.
“Their Majesties are at Buckingham Palace at the moment,” he said. “But I’ll take you to meet their Royal Highnesses in the Lancaster Tower. Then to your rooms, in the Victoria Tower.”
After a long walk through the cold and dim corridors, it was a relief finally to reach the princesses’ nursery, an oasis of warmth and color and light in the Lancaster Tower. It was decorated in warm shades of rose and fawn, with colorful watercolors and oil paintings that must have been done by the princesses themselves. The room was filled with toys and books, neatly stacked in bookcases and cupboards, a wooden rocking horse in one corner. The air was warmed by burning birch logs in the massive stone fireplace, guarded by an ornate burnished fender. In front of the fire, on needlepoint pillows, lounged four black-and-sable corgis with snowy white bellies. The sound of the dogs’ gentle snoring was punctuated by the snap of the flames in the fireplace.
Two girls, one older, one younger, both with glistening brown curls and gentian blue eyes, sat on the sofa facing the fire. They were dressed alike, in white blouses, navy wool cardigans, and green plaid skirts. Both were knitting.
The older girl gave a sigh. “I do wish socks didn’t have heels,” she said in a high dulcet voice, struggling with her needles. “Knitting is not my favorite.”
“If it doesn’t have fur and fart, you don’t like it,” the younger girl quipped.
“That’s not true, I—”
“Oh, yes—bonus points if it eats hay.”
Ainslie cleared his throat. “Your Highnesses, this is Miss Margaret Hope. Miss Hope, this is Her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth and Her Royal Highness the Princess Margaret.”
Maggie bobbed in an awkward curtsey.
“Good evening, Miss Hope,” Princess Elizabeth said, looking up from her knitting. “I hope you had a pleasant journey from London.”
“Well, hello there!” Margaret said, jumping to her feet, obviously intrigued by the new person. “Who are you?”
