The palace staff had become his family, the queen, the centre of his world. In his final years of service, as arthritis began to gnaw Shaw’s once nimble fingers, the queen had personally insisted he transition to lighter duties rather than retire completely, recognising his devotion. The memory that pressed most insistently on Evans’ mind now was from just two years prior.
He had encountered Shaw at a palace garden party, the retired footman invited as a special guest in recognition of his service. They had found a quiet moment away from the crowds, standing beside a flowering cherry tree. The doctors say it’s spreading, Shaw had said without preamble, his voice matter-of-fact rather than seeking sympathy, pancreatic, not the good kind, if there is such a thing.
A gentle breeze had scattered cherry blossoms around them as Shaw looked up at the palace windows. I’ve served Her Majesty my entire life, been present at every significant moment of her reign that occurred within these walls. When the time comes, he had paused, his voice dropping, when the time comes for her final journey, I fear I may not be able to be properly present, to pay my respects as I should.
My nephew will take me, of course, but he doesn’t understand, the crowds will be enormous, in my condition… Shaw’s eyes had met Evans’ directly. If that day comes, and I’m still here, but unable to secure a proper position, would you help an old man say goodbye to his queen? I give you my word, Mr Shaw, Evans had replied, his voice carrying the weight of a formal oath. If that day comes, I’ll ensure you can pay your proper respects.
A promise that now pressed upon Evans’ conscience as he watched Shaw struggle in the crowd. The procession was drawing nearer, the solemn music growing louder. Shaw’s face reflected a quiet desperation as he attempted to find a gap between the spectators.
He tried to shift sideways but was hemmed in by the density of the crowd. For a moment, he seemed to sway slightly, one hand reaching out to steady himself against the shoulder of a stranger. The other hand pressed against his side, a gesture Evans recognised from their last meeting, when Shaw had admitted the pain was sometimes overwhelming.
No one in the crowd seemed to notice the elderly man’s predicament. All eyes were drawn to the approaching procession. Shaw was invisible to them, just as he had been for decades of service, moving silently through palace corridors, present but unseen.
Evans’ duty was clear. Maintain position. Remain motionless.
Embody the discipline and tradition of the guard during this sacred state occasion. The penalty for breaking formation during a royal funeral procession would be severe. Possibly the end of his military career, certainly the end of his time with the Queen’s Guard, fifteen years of spotless service, potentially erased by a single decision.
Yet the promise he had made weighed equally heavy. Not merely a casual oath, but a soldier’s word, given to a man who had devoted his entire life to the same institution Evans had sworn to serve. Evans could see Shaw attempting once more to find a viewing position, his thin frame now leaning heavily against a barrier, his breath coming in visible gasps.
The procession was less than fifty yards away. In moments it would pass, and Shaw would miss his final opportunity to properly bid farewell to the monarch he had served for over sixty years. Evans’ breathing changed slightly, the only outward sign of his internal struggle.
His eyes flicked briefly toward Captain Croft, who was focused intently on the approaching procession, then back to Shaw. The coffin was now thirty yards away, twenty yards. Evans drew a slightly deeper breath, his decision crystallising with the clarity that often comes in moments of crisis.
Fifteen years of training had taught him when rules must be followed absolutely. It had also taught him when they must be broken. With the precision that had characterised his entire career, Evans executed a perfect about-face.
The same movement performed countless times during ceremonial duty, but now performed at a moment when absolute stillness was required. The motion was so clean, so professional, that for a split second it might have appeared to be part of some predetermined protocol unknown to the public. That illusion shattered as he took his first step away from his post.
He moved with deliberate efficiency, neither rushing nor hesitating. His white-gloved hands maintained their proper grip on his rifle, his posture remaining parade-ground perfect as he cut a straight line through the crowd towards Shaw. The precision of his movement created a natural parting in the mass of people who instinctively gave way before the unexpected approach of the scarlet-clad figure.
From the corner of his eye, Evans caught the reaction of the nearest guards. They maintained their positions, but he could sense their shock in the subtle stiffening of their already rigid postures. Captain Croft’s face came into Evans’s line of sight.
The man’s expression transformed from confusion to disbelief to fury in the space of seconds. His eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously, his jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle jumped visibly along his temple. Evans reached Shaw in seven precisely measured steps.
The elderly man looked up in astonishment as the guard’s tall figure appeared before him. Lance Corporal Evans, Shaw whispered, confusion evident in his roomy eyes. Without speaking, speech would have been a further breach of protocol.
Evans extended his left arm while maintaining his grip on his rifle with his right. With the same ceremonial dignity he would have used to escort a visiting dignitary, he gently guided Shaw forward through the crowd, which parted respectfully before them. Evans positioned the elderly man at the very front of the spectators, directly adjacent to his now vacant post.
Here Shaw would have an unobstructed view of the procession just as it passed. The elderly man’s legs trembled slightly, and Evans smoothly adjusted his stance to provide support. You kept your promise, lad, Shaw murmured, his voice barely audible above the funeral march.