The Royal Boot

 The biting Windsor chill did little to soothe my simmering frustration. Night duty on the East Terrace post was usually a bore, but tonight, it was actively infuriating. And the source of my torment? A teenage Prince Harry, all gangly limbs and mischievous grin, who seemed to view my solemn sentry duty as his personal playground.

He'd started subtly. First, the whispered jokes from the shadows, just loud enough to make me twitch but not loud enough for me to definitively identify the source. Then came the pebbles flicked at my bearskin, each tiny impact feeling like a personal affront to the Queen and the entire Commonwealth. I'd maintained my rigid composure, eyes fixed straight ahead, every muscle screaming for release.

But then came the rubber chicken.

Yes, you read that right. A floppy, slightly deflated rubber chicken, launched from the darkness, landed with a pathetic thwack against my leg. That was it. Something inside me snapped. Years of military discipline warred with a primal urge to introduce the royal backside to the sole of my size twelve boot. Discipline, bless its starched cotton heart, lost.

Turning with a speed that would have surprised my drill sergeant, I spotted the retreating figure, a shock of red hair barely visible disappearing behind a stone pillar. "Right, you little blighter," I muttered under my breath, my rifle momentarily forgotten.

I pursued him with a silent fury that only years of suppressed irritation could fuel. He wasn't expecting it. Princes, I imagine, aren't used to being chased down by grim-faced guardsmen. I rounded the pillar just as he was collapsing into a fit of giggles, clutching his sides.

"Thought that was funny, did you?" I growled, my voice low and dangerous.

His laughter died in his throat. He looked up at me, eyes wide with a dawning realization that perhaps, just perhaps, he'd pushed things too far.

Before he could stammer out an apology (or another taunt, who knew with him?), I did it. Fueled by weeks of bad coffee, aching feet, and the indignity of being pranked by a royal teenager, I planted my boot squarely on his backside. Not a gentle tap. A firm, decisive shove.

He yelped, more in surprise than pain, and stumbled forward a few feet. He turned back to me, a mixture of shock and outrage on his youthful face.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he sputtered, clutching his lower back.

"Teaching you some respect, Your Royal Highness," I said, my voice still low but laced with a grim satisfaction. "This isn't a game. I'm on duty."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a ceremonial sword. For a moment, I thought I'd be facing the Tower, or at the very least, a very unpleasant dressing down from my superiors.

Then, something unexpected happened. A slow grin spread across Prince Harry's face.

"Blimey," he said, a chuckle escaping him. "You actually did it."

He shook his head, still grinning. "Right then," he continued, a newfound respect in his eyes. "Message received. I won't bother you again."

And to my utter surprise, he didn't. For the rest of my tour at Windsor, Prince Harry gave me a wide berth, sometimes even offering a curt nod as he passed.

Of course, I never told anyone what happened that night. It would have been my career. But sometimes, late at night, when the Welsh wind howls outside my window, I still chuckle to myself, remembering the look on Prince Harry's face when a grumpy guardsman finally decided enough was enough and introduced his royal posterior to a well-worn army boot. It remains one of the few times in my service I truly felt I'd earned my pay.