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A Royal Serendipity Part 52

The first days of May 1974 brought an unexpected warmth to England, coaxing gardens into full bloom and spirits into tentative optimism despite the nation's ongoing economic troubles. At Bolehyde Manor, Camilla stood by her bedroom window, calendar in hand, counting days for the third time that morning.

"Seven weeks," she murmured to herself, setting the calendar down on her dressing table. Seven weeks since her last period in March. Too long to be a simple irregularity. Too consistent with the subtle changes she'd been noticing in her body—the tenderness in her breasts, the occasional waves of nausea in the mornings, the peculiar aversion to the coffee she normally enjoyed.

She hadn't mentioned anything to Andrew yet. He was in London during the week as usual, immersed in regimental duties and the endless rounds of meetings that seemed to constitute military life in peacetime. More importantly, she wasn't certain, and Camilla was not a woman who dealt in uncertainties. She needed facts before making announcements, especially about something as momentous as this.

Only Annabel knew of her suspicions. Her sister had visited last weekend, and as they shared a bottle of wine in the garden at Bolehyde, Camilla had found herself setting her glass down half-finished.

"I think I might be pregnant," she had said abruptly, surprising herself with the directness of the statement.

Annabel had frozen with her glass halfway to her lips. "Really? Oh, Milla!"

"Don't get too excited," Camilla had cautioned. "I'm not certain. I'm late—very late. But it could be stress, or…"

"Or you're going to have a baby," Annabel had finished for her, eyes bright with excitement. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"I've made an appointment for next week in London. But please don't say anything, not even to Simon. I want to be sure before I tell Andrew. You know how much he wants children."

Annabel had squeezed her hand. "My lips are sealed. But oh, Milla, how wonderful if it's true!"

Now, a week later, the appointment was just days away, and Camilla found herself in a curious limbo—not quite believing, yet hoping with an intensity that surprised her. She had always wanted children, had always seen them as part of her future, but now that the possibility was potentially becoming reality, she felt a mixture of excitement and terror that was entirely new.

The weekend before her London appointment brought a welcome distraction: the Royal Windsor Horse Show. Saturday morning found her joining a group of friends who had established a tradition of champagne picnics in the car park before entering the show grounds.

"Camilla, darling!" Virginia called as she approached the designated area where several Range Rovers and Bentleys were already parked. "We were beginning to think you'd abandoned us for more glamorous company."

"Never," Camilla replied with a smile, embracing her friend. "Though that taxi driver seemed determined to take me on a scenic tour of Windsor first."

The group had arranged themselves around a folding table laden with hampers from Fortnum's, bottles chilling in silver buckets, and the kind of elegant picnicware that only the English aristocracy would consider appropriate for a car park gathering. Camilla poured herself a glass of champagne. However, she sipped rather than gulped, some instinct telling her to moderate her intake.

As they ate and chatted, the conversation inevitably turned to the latest gossip: who was getting divorced, whose estate was being quietly sold to cover death duties, which debutante had made a spectacle of herself at a recent ball. Camilla participated just enough to be sociable, but found her mind wandering frequently to the appointment that waited for her, to the possibility growing within her.

"Shall we head in?" suggested Jane after they had finished their meal. "I'm particularly keen to see the dressage this year."

They made their way toward the show grounds, a colorful parade of tweed, silk scarves, and wide-brimmed hats designed to ward off both sun and potential rain—the English taking no chances with their famously fickle weather. Camilla walked arm in arm with Virginia, half-listening to her friend's account of a disastrous dinner party the previous week, when a familiar voice caught her attention.

"Camilla! What a pleasant surprise."

She turned to find Charles approaching, looking casual yet elegant in a light sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers. His smile was genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners in the way they did when he was truly pleased.

"Charles," she replied warmly, accepting his kiss on the cheek with easy familiarity. "Lovely day for it."

"Isn't it?" He looked at her more closely, his head tilting slightly. "You look… different. Radiant, actually. Wiltshire must be agreeing with you tremendously."

Camilla felt a flush rise to her cheeks, wondering if the changes she felt within were somehow visible on her face. "Kind of you to say so," she responded lightly. "Though I suspect it's merely Virginia's excellent taste in champagne bringing color to my cheeks."

Charles laughed, but his gaze remained curious, attentive. "I'm here with Constantine," he said after a moment. "You remember King Constantine of Greece? He's quite passionate about horses—I think you'd enjoy his company."

"I'd be delighted," Camilla replied, curious despite herself.

Charles led her a short distance to where a distinguished-looking man in his thirties stood observing a groom leading a magnificent bay horse. "Constantine," Charles called. "Come meet an old friend of mine."

Constantine turned with a warm smile that immediately put Camilla at ease despite his royal status. "Mrs. Parker Bowles," he said, taking her offered hand. "Charles speaks very highly of you."

"Please, it's Camilla," she insisted after a deep curtsey. "And don't believe everything he tells you. His royal Highness has always been prone to exaggeration where his friends are concerned."

"Only when they deserve it," Charles retorted with a grin. "Camilla is being modest. She's one of the finest horsewomen in England—though she'd never admit it."

"Because it's patently untrue," she laughed. "I merely enjoy riding more than is probably sensible for someone who falls off with embarrassing regularity."

Constantine's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Honesty about one's limitations—a rare quality! I myself took a spectacular tumble last month that my security detail has been sworn to secrecy about."

The ice thus broken, the three fell into comfortable conversation. Virginia and the rest of Camilla's party tactfully moved ahead, leaving them to wander through the show grounds at their own pace. Constantine proved to be not only knowledgeable about horses but possessed of a dry wit that matched Camilla's own. As they strolled past paddocks and exhibition rings, stopping occasionally to admire particularly fine specimens, the conversation flowed easily between equestrian matters, mutual acquaintances, and good-natured teasing.

"That Cleveland Bay has the most magnificent action," Camilla observed as they paused to watch a carriage horse being put through its paces.

"Beautiful animal," Constantine agreed. "Though I confess I've always had a weakness for the Andalusians. There's something almost balletic about their movement."

"The Greeks have always appreciated beauty in motion," Charles remarked with a smile. "Whether horses, architecture, or Olympic athletes."

They continued their circuit of the grounds, stopping to watch various competitions and demonstrations. Charles walked close to Camilla, his hand occasionally brushing hers in a way that might have seemed accidental but for the subtle warmth in his eyes when their glances met. Constantine, either oblivious to or diplomatically ignoring these moments, kept the conversation flowing with anecdotes about Greek equestrian traditions and questions about the British approach to breeding and training.

As the afternoon progressed, Camilla found herself growing uncharacteristically tired. By the time they reached the main area where the show jumping was underway, she was fighting against a wave of fatigue unlike anything she'd experienced before.

Charles, ever observant, noticed immediately. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly, touching her elbow. "You've gone rather pale."

"I'm fine," Camilla insisted, though she felt anything but. A peculiar lightheadedness had come over her, accompanied by a faint nausea that she was desperately trying to suppress. "Perhaps just a bit of sun."

"Nonsense," Charles said firmly. "You don't look well at all. Constantine, would you excuse us for a moment?"

With gentle insistence, he guided her to a quieter area away from the crowds, his hand supportive beneath her elbow. Constantine followed at a discreet distance, his expression concerned but unobtrusive.

"Better?" Charles asked as she leaned against a fence post, the world steadying slightly.

"A little," she admitted. "How embarrassing. I'm never ill."

"Everyone is entitled to the occasional indisposition," he said kindly. "Though I must say, this isn't like you at all." His eyes searched her face with a concern that was more than merely polite. "Should I find a doctor?"

"No!" The response came too quickly, and she moderated her tone. "No, really. I think I just need to rest. Perhaps I should head back to London."

"Of course." Charles didn't press the issue, though something in his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Let me arrange a car for you."

Before she could protest, he had moved a short distance away and was speaking quietly to an aide. Constantine took the opportunity to approach her.

"I hope you feel better soon, Camilla," he said with genuine warmth. "It has been a pleasure meeting you. I can see why Charles holds you in such high regard."

"The pleasure was mine," she replied, summoning a smile despite her discomfort. "I hope we have the chance to continue our conversation another time."

Charles returned, accompanied by a discreet-looking man in a dark suit. "This is Matthews, one of our drivers. He'll take you wherever you need to go."

"That's really not necessary," Camilla began, but the look on Charles's face brooked no argument.

"I insist," he said firmly. "And I'd like you to call me this evening to let me know you're feeling better. Otherwise, I shall worry unnecessarily."

The genuine concern in his voice touched her. "Alright," she agreed. "Thank you."

As she prepared to leave, Charles stepped closer. "Take care of yourself, Milla," he said quietly, his use of her nickname natural between them. "You're looking quite…" He hesitated, seeming to search for the right word. "Quite precious these days."

Before she could respond to this enigmatic comment, he leaned in and brushed a kiss against her cheek—affectionate, concerned, lingering just a fraction longer than friendship strictly required. "Call me," he murmured as he pulled away.

The royal driver proved to be both efficient and discreet, guiding her to a nondescript but immaculately maintained Daimler and helping her into the back seat. As they pulled away from Windsor, Camilla leaned back against the leather upholstery, closing her eyes against the continued waves of fatigue and queasiness.

"Are you comfortable, madam?" Matthews inquired.

"Thank you," she replied."

The journey passed in a haze of half-sleep. By the time they reached her London flat—which she and Andrew maintained primarily for his use during the week—she was feeling marginally better, though still far from her usual self.

After thanking Matthews and assuring him she could manage on her own, Camilla let herself into the apartment and went directly to the bedroom. She kicked off her shoes, pulled the curtains against the late afternoon sun, and lay down on the bed, not even bothering to change out of her show clothes.

She woke several hours later to the sound of the telephone ringing. For a moment, she was disoriented, the unfamiliar shadows of the London bedroom confusing her still-groggy mind. The phone continued its insistent jangle, and she reached for it, her voice husky with sleep as she answered.

"Hello?"

"Camilla, it's Charles." His voice was warm with concern. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, no," she lied automatically, then thought better of it. "Well, yes, actually. I fell asleep as soon as I got in."

"How are you feeling now?"

"Better, thank you." It wasn't entirely untrue—the nausea had subsided, though she still felt oddly fragile. "I think it was just the heat and perhaps not enough proper lunch."

There was a brief pause on the line. "I was quite worried," Charles admitted. "You're usually the picture of robust health."

"Just a momentary weakness," she assured him. "Nothing serious."

"I'm glad to hear it." Another pause, longer this time. "Constantine was quite taken with you, by the way. Said you were 'refreshingly genuine'—high praise from a Greek monarch."

Camilla laughed softly. "He was charming. And remarkably knowledgeable about horses for someone who doesn't ride regularly."

"He's knowledgeable about most things," Charles said. "One of the few people I can talk to about both ancient philosophy and modern breeding techniques in the same conversation."

They chatted a few minutes longer, the ease between them as natural as it had always been, untouched by the complex history that lay behind them. As the conversation wound toward its natural conclusion, Charles said casually, "I'll be playing polo the next couple of weeks. Will you come? Andrew will be playing too, I expect?"

"I'd like that," Camilla replied, surprised by how much she meant it. "And yes, Andrew mentioned he'd be in the tournament."

"Splendid." The pleasure in his voice was unmistakable. "Take care of yourself, Camilla. Get some proper rest."

After hanging up, she lay back on the pillows, her hand drifting unconsciously to her still-flat stomach. The tenderness she felt there was no longer just physical—it was a growing awareness of possibility, of new life. For the first time, she allowed herself to fully embrace the hope that had been building within her for weeks: she might be carrying a child. Andrew's child. Their future.

The thought carried her through the weekend and into the following week, when she finally sat in the doctor's office, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she waited for him to return with her test results.

When he did, his smile told her everything before he spoke a word. "Congratulations, Mrs. Parker Bowles," he said warmly. "You're approximately eight weeks pregnant. Everything appears to be progressing normally."

The words washed over her like a benediction. Pregnant. She was going to have a baby. The tears that sprang to her eyes surprised her, but these were tears of pure joy, of relief, of wonder at the miracle taking place within her own body.

"When am I due?" she asked, once she had composed herself.

"Mid-December, by my calculations," the doctor replied, consulting his notes. "Just in time for Christmas."

The rest of the appointment passed in a blur of practical information. She left the office clutching a handful of pamphlets and a prescription for prenatal vitamins, but most of all carrying the precious knowledge that she would share with Andrew when he returned to Bolehyde for the weekend.

---

When Friday evening finally arrived and she heard Andrew's car on the gravel drive, Camilla had to restrain herself from running out to meet him. Instead, she waited in the drawing room, a fire lit against the slight evening chill, wearing the blue dress he particularly liked.

"Hello, darling," Andrew said as he entered, crossing to kiss her cheek. "Frightful traffic on the M4. Some idiot jacknifed a lorry near Reading." He paused, noticing the champagne cooling in an ice bucket and the fire crackling merrily in the grate despite the season. "Are we celebrating something?"

Camilla took a deep breath, suddenly nervous despite her days of anticipation. "Sit down," she said, patting the space beside her on the sofa. "I have something to tell you."

Andrew's face registered a moment of concern before he complied, sitting close enough that their knees touched. "Is everything alright?"

Camilla took a deep breath, her hands unconsciously smoothing her skirt. "I saw a doctor in London this week," she began. "I've been suspecting for a while, but now it's confirmed." She paused, meeting his eyes directly. "Andrew, I'm pregnant. We're going to have a baby in December."

For a moment, he simply stared at her, as if the words were taking time to penetrate. Then his face transformed with a joy so pure, so unguarded, that Camilla felt her throat tighten with emotion.

"A baby," he whispered, stepping forward to take her hands in his. "Our baby." He reached out tentatively to touch her stomach, as if expecting to feel something despite the early stage. "Are you sure? The doctor is certain?"

"Completely certain," she assured him, covering his hand with her own. "Eight weeks along, and everything looks normal."

"December," he repeated wonderingly. "A Christmas baby." His eyes, when they met hers, were suspiciously bright. "Oh, Camilla, this is… this is everything."

He pulled her into an embrace so tender it made her heart ache, his cheek pressed against her hair. "Thank you," he murmured. "Thank you for this gift."

Later, after they had opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate—Camilla allowing herself a full glass—, and Andrew had bombarded her with questions about the doctor's visit, they sat together in the garden, watching the sunset paint the old stone of Bolehyde in golden light. The contentment Camilla felt was profound—deeper than happiness, more solid than excitement. This was right. This was what she had chosen when she married Andrew: a home, a family, a future built on shared dreams and mutual devotion.

"We should start planning the nursery," Andrew said, his fingers entwined with hers. "The room next to ours would be perfect—south-facing, good light."

"It's rather early for that," she protested with a laugh. "I'm barely two months along."

"Never too early," he insisted, pressing a kiss to her temple. "This child is going to have everything. The best of everything."

As they talked of cribs and prams, of names and godparents, of all the plans large and small that accompany the anticipation of a first child, Camilla felt a sense of completion that had eluded her for much of her life. Whatever complications lay in her past—with Charles, with other men before Andrew—they were just that: past. What mattered now was the future growing within her, the family they would become, the life they would build together at Bolehyde Manor.

The path not taken—the life with Charles that had once seemed tantalizingly possible—receded further with each beat of the new heart forming beneath her own. She had made her choice, and now that choice had been blessed in the most profound way imaginable. As she leaned her head against Andrew's shoulder, listening to him enthusiastically outline plans for a pony paddock "once the child is old enough to sit a horse, of course," Camilla felt, perhaps for the first time, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

#A Royal Serendipity #fanfic #fanfiction #camilla shand #camilla parker bowles #queen camilla #prince charles #prince of wales #king charles iil #brf #brf fanfiction #andrew parker bowles #king constantin #annabel elliot

The more I think about it, the more I remember that literally NO MAN in Arthur’s family died a natural death.

His grandfather, King Constantine Sr gets taken out by Vortigern’s goons, as well as King Constantine Jr, Uther and Aurelius’ older brother.

Aurelius gets poisoned, by whom varies.

Uther gets poisoned by Saxons

Arthur gets killed in battle

Mordred gets killed in battle trying to kill Arthur.

…there had to have been some curse or something placed on their male line, frfr

#king arthur #Arthuriana #Arthurian legend #arthurian mythology #Aurelius ambrosius #king constantin #constans #uther pendragon #Mordred #mordred pendragon #battle of camlann