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I, on the other hand, did not look smart, nor did I feel comfortable, in my Blues and Royals uniform, which protocol dictated that I wear. I’d never worn it before and hoped not to wear it again anytime soon. It had huge shoulder pads, and huge cuffs, and I could imagine people saying: Who’s this idiot? I felt like a kitsch version of Johnny Bravo.

We climbed into a plum-colored Bentley. Neither of us said anything as we waited for the driver to pull out.

As the car pulled away, finally, I broke the silence. You reek.

The aftermath of last night’s rum.

I jokingly cracked a window, pinched my nose—offered him some mints.

The corners of his mouth bent slightly upward.

After two minutes, the Bentley stopped. Short trip, I said.

I peered out of the window:

Westminster Abbey.

As always, my stomach lurched. I thought: Nothing like getting married in the same place where you did your mum’s funeral.

I shot a glance at Willy. Was he thinking the same thing?

We went inside, shoulder to shoulder. I looked again at his uniform, his cap. Who shall separate us? We were soldiers, grown men, but walking with that same tentative, boyish gait as when we’d trailed Mummy’s coffin. Why did the adults do that to us? We marched into the church, down the aisle, made for a side room off the altar—called the Crypt. Everything in that building spoke of death.

It wasn’t just the memories of Mummy’s funeral. More than three thousand bodies lay beneath us, behind us. They were buried under the pews, wedged into the walls. War heroes and poets, scientists and saints, the cream of the Commonwealth. Isaac Newton, Charles Dickens, Chaucer, plus thirteen kings and eighteen queens, they were all interred there.

It was still so hard to think of Mummy in the realm of Death. Mummy, who’d danced with Travolta, who’d quarreled with Elton, who’d dazzled the Reagans—could she really be in the Great Beyond with the spirits of Newton and Chaucer?

Between these thoughts of Mummy and death and my frostnipped penis, I was in danger of becoming as anxious as the groom. So I started pacing, shaking my arms, listening to the crowd murmuring in the pews. They’d been seated two hours before we arrived. You just know many of them need a pee, I said to Willy, trying to break the tension.

No reaction. He stood up, started pacing too.

I tried again. The wedding ring! Oh, no—where is it? Where did I put the bloody thing?

Then I pulled it out. Phew!

He gave a smile, went back to his pacing.

I couldn’t have lost that ring if I’d wanted to. A special kangaroo pouch had been sewn inside my tunic. My idea, actually, that was how seriously I took the solemn duty and honor of bearing it.

Now I took the ring from its pouch, held it to the light. A thin band of Welsh gold, shaved off a hunk given to the Royal Family nearly a century before. The same hunk had provided a ring for Granny when she married, and for Princess Margaret, but it was nearly exhausted now, I’d heard. By the time I got married, if I ever got married, there might be none left.

I don’t recall leaving the Crypt. I don’t recall walking out to the altar. I have no memory of the readings, or removing the ring, or handing it to my brother. The ceremony is mostly a blank in my mind. I recall Kate walking down the aisle, looking incredible, and I recall Willy walking her back up the aisle, and as they disappeared through the door, into the carriage that would convey them to Buckingham Palace, into the eternal partnership they’d pledged, I recall thinking: Goodbye.

I loved my new sister-in-law, I felt she was more sister than in-law, the sister I’d never had and always wanted, and I was pleased that she’d forever be standing by Willy’s side. She was a good match for my older brother. They made each other visibly happy, and therefore I was happy too. But in my gut I couldn’t help feeling that this was yet another farewell under this horrid roof. Another sundering. The brother I’d escorted into Westminster Abbey that morning was gone—forever. Who could deny it? He’d never again be first and foremost Willy. We’d never again ride together across the Lesotho countryside with capes blowing behind us. We’d never again share a horsey-smelling cottage while learning to fly. Who shall separate us?

Life, that’s who.

I’d had the same feeling when Pa got married, the same presentiment, and hadn’t it come true? In the Camilla era, as I’d predicted, I saw him less and less. Weddings were joyous occasions, sure, but they were also low-key funerals, because after saying their vows people tended to disappear.