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Hello, Matthew. Hello, Alice. As discussed, been doing this for a good while now and I just feel like you deserve a reward. Like we never do anything nice together. I thought we could go on a bit of a journey. Call it a holiday if you like. I would love that. How about Germany? I love Germany. I love the beer and I love currywurst. Great. Okay, well, you're gonna, you're gonna have a ball. Great. So when are we going?
Interesting question that. We're going in 1936. Right, yeah, I don't... Germany wasn't great then. Yeah, fine. I do worry... You know we did the Hitler Diaries, the last series? Yeah. And now you're taking me to Nazi Germany. Yeah. I think people might get the wrong impression. What do you mean? 3pm on the 10th of December, 1936. Beirut, Germany.
A few hours ago, I discharged my last duty as king and emperor. And now that I've been succeeded by my brother, the Duke of York... From a large Bakelite wireless adorned with an eagle crest, booms King Edward VIII's final speech. Joachim von Ribbentrop's voice trembles as he translates for the Fuhrer. He knows Adolf Hitler has no regard for prior loyalties. Friends who let him down are subjected to ear-splitting, spittle-drenched rages. Career destruction.
Or worse. Edward signs off. God bless you all. God save the king. Hitler promptly snaps off the radio. He leans forward until Ribbentrop can feel his breath. It did! You assured me it was all in hand! Adolf Hitler had been convinced King Edward VIII was Britain's weakest link.
At loggerheads with his government over his proposed marriage to Wallace Simpson, he was determined Germany could exploit this, bypass the tiresome Baldwin and make relations directly with the king, divide and conquer, form a British-German alliance. That may sound mad from the perspective of 2022, but there were members of the aristocracy and the governing elite in Britain that actually were pro-Hitler.
Ribbentrop was supposed to facilitate this, but now he stands, frightened at Hitler's rage. I thought it was I sent Wallis Simpson 17 carnations every single day. I made my whole family learn golf. It sounds like you haven't been working on this alliance, mate. I think that's actually just unrelated. He's just like, that's what I've been up to. I sent her chocolates and I learned to play cricket. I will not stand for deceit. Of course, my gracious Fuhrer, but
The way I see it, the abdication is a positive development. The words come out of Ribbentrop's mouth before he knows what he's saying. Hitler eyes him narrowly. How? Why, this way Edward and Wallace will be isolated, ja? In exile in Europe. No family or government protecting him. It's the perfect opportunity to unite him with our cause. Ribbentrop holds his breath. Very slowly, Hitler nods. Very well.
But this time, I want results.
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Okay, so Matt, use of your imagination for a second. Okay. Your heir to the throne, what would you give up for the love of a woman? Well, I'd like to think that I would genuinely give up the things that I really care about. Football, anything, you know, fried food. The reality is I think I would pretend to like something and then give it up. Oh, right. Okay, so what are you thinking? Playing the violin. Okay.
I promise to never, ever raise it to my neck ever again. But in all seriousness, what do you make of Edward's decision? So if we remember the end of last episode, he was given this ultimatum and he chose Wallace. He abdicated and he handed over to Bertie. I love the romance of it. I like the idea that people would be so in love that they would forego power, status and money.
But the manner in which they're living just sounds so stressful. It feels like they're on the run and it feels like the intrusion into their lives is becoming unbearable. Yeah, it feels all too familiar as well, doesn't it? This idea of love versus obligation. But genuinely, what has changed? Misogyny, obsession over royal love lives, an outdated idea of what is right and what is proper, Nazis. What?!
When did that crop up? Sorry, spoiler. That is what's coming up. This is episode three, Traitor King. 7th of May, 1937. Paris, France. Wallace Simpson takes in the girl in the mirror. The ivory silk bodice clasps her waist as though it was made for her. She dreamed of this, back when she was five or six, lodging with her mother in her Aunt Bessie's Baltimore townhouse. She'd wrap herself in a white eiderdown and pin a silk pillowcase to her head.
Now she's living her wildest childhood fantasies, planning a fairytale wedding to a charming English prince. The designer stands with a finger on his chin, watching her curiously. Was this the sort of style Madame had in mind? But for once, Wallace, a mainstay amongst the fashion pages, has to admit, Do you know, I'm not actually sure.
Because in truth, all Wallace can think about is Ernest Simpson. Uh-oh. Their divorce was finalized this morning, leaving Wallace feeling oddly shaken. She turns away from the designer. I'm awfully sorry. I quite forgot. I said I'd meet an old friend. Wallace slips awkwardly out of the studio onto the bustling street, her dour police bodyguard following so close behind she can feel his breath on her neck.
She's flattered that Edward would give up the throne for her, of course, but she never wanted to be at the centre of international events like this, fearing for her safety at every moment. Flattered doesn't really surely do justice to how you'd feel for a head of state abdicating so they can marry you. You'd be gutted, wouldn't you? You'd be like, this is brownie points for life, and they're like, touched, thoroughly touched. Isn't it also what people say when they don't actually like you? They go, I am flattered, it's just that I don't feel the same.
She relaxes as she reaches a cafe tucked discreetly into a side alley. She peers through the window. On a table near the counter, she sees him, his broad, safe arms and round, pleasant face. Ernest. If it isn't the most notorious woman in Europe. How's Peter Pan? Wallace and Ernest's nickname for the prince. Wallace sighs. Exhausting. Sometimes I... Well... She hesitates. Sometimes I think...
Wasn't our life together so lovely and simple? For the first time, Ernest looks awkward. He does a sort of splutter and lifts his espresso to his lips. How's the wedding planning coming along? Please don't remind me. I came in here to escape all that. Ernest laughs. I know exactly how you feel. Wallace suspends her teacup mid-sip. Oh? I'm actually getting married myself. You remember Mary? Mary Rafferty?
Mary Rafferty, Wallace's childhood friend, bridesmaid at her first wedding, is going to marry her husband? Well, ex-husband. Wow. I love it. She forces herself to think of the good times with Edward. Spinning about smoky dance floors, skinny dipping from the gnarly yacht, before anyone had so much as uttered the word abdication.
It's been a tricky few months, and now it's all over. He'll be back to his old self. Yes, she tells herself, she's definitely picked the right man. 3rd of June, 1937, Chateau de Candé, France. Edward is dappily dressed in a bespoke morning suit, an athletic spring in his step. The six months since the abdication have been the hardest of Edward's life.
Exiled from Wallace while her divorce came through, he spent much of it calling in favours from old chums and leafing through last year's diary. All those engagements he had when he was king. But within the hour, he'll be joined in matrimony to the love of his life. And having sacrificed so much to make it to this day, he's determined to savour every last minute of it. Your Highness. The snivelling voice of an advisor interrupts his tune. Edward turns and sees the man wringing his hands.
I won't have bad news. Not today. Of course, sir. I just thought, best you know... The man's grave expression makes Edward uneasy. Well, I've had a word from the king. He's happy to offer yourself and your, well, your wife the title of Duke and Duchess of Windsor, as per your request. But he won't entertain the possibility of the Duchess becoming her Royal Highness. Yes.
Edward's voice comes out in a roar. What? But a wife should assume the status of her husband. That's how it is, how it's always been. Did he at least give a reason? He's concerned that Wallace would, uh, well, she would remain an HRH in the unlikely event of, well, your divorce. Some wedding present this is.
It's so mad hearing this in the 1930s when this is what Diana and Meghan have both been through in the modern era. Yeah, I mean, time and time again. So this is the badge of honour that the royals can hold back. They can withhold it from those that they don't think are deserving or worthy and they continue to do it.
And to the rest of us, it might sound mad. You go, well, you're a princess anyway, so what more do you want? But in that subtle, claustrophobic world where different markers of status really matter, that's actually a huge deal. And a huge disrespect. Edward forces himself to take a deep, measured breath. He won't let his brother ruin things. Not today. He abruptly turns and makes his way into the chapel. All seven guests are already seated. Not one member of his family has made the trip.
He stands nervously beside the altar, clasping his hands together to stop them shaking. Finally, the bridal march commences. And there she is, in a soft blue crepe gown, a diamond brooch at her throat, gliding down the aisle towards him. Edward stares, transfixed. He tells himself nothing else should matter now, only her. Wallace swings gaily about the ballroom floor, cackling with laughter. Oh, I love this one.
But in the corner of the room, several whiskies deep, Edward is pontificating with the chateau owner, Charles Bordeaux. His hand leans against the sparse present table. Even the French Prime Minister sent a bouquet. But from the British government? My own family? Nothing. Yes, very poor show. It's not me I'm upset for. It's dear Wally. She agreed to marry a king. Now what has she got?
He gestures wildly across the cavernous room. Charles leans in. Well, stuff them. Edward grins. There are many countries who would jump at the chance to entertain a distinguished mind such as yourself. Edward nods vehemently. Exactly. Only last month, my good friend Joachim von Ribbentrop was saying how much they'd love to welcome you and your new bride for a proper state visit. Careful now. Edward hesitates, lowers his glass.
He's not stupid. He knows Charles has German business interests. Getting the Duke to Germany would earn him some serious credit in Berlin. But still, tensions are growing between Britain and Germany. He could use his diplomatic skills, smooth things over, do some good for his country, and earn a bit of recognition in the process. Besides, the wedding's been such a paltry affair. A state visit to Germany would be an opportunity to give Wallis all the pomp and ceremony she deserves.
Well, Edward reluctantly shakes his head. I'm sorry. He doesn't want to give his family any more reason to exclude him. I'll have to ask my brother. So it's not a hard no? It's a once I've got my permission slip. 14th of June, 1937. Orient Express, Italy. Edward sits in a plush velvet seat, watching the Italian countryside hurtle by outside.
This train carriage has been donated personally for his honeymoon by Benito Mussolini, Prime Minister of Italy. But despite the ornate surroundings, Edward feels more than a little queasy. Across the waxed mahogany table sits an advisor with a large stack of bills in front of him. You must remember, Your Highness, your income is not what it was. I know. The wedding venue, the honeymoon. I've had to call in favours for the lot of it. Even so...
The advisor curtly leafs through accounts from fashion houses and jewellery designers. Dior, Van Cleef, Cartier. I'm sure if you talk to her... Never! I can't have her thinking she married a pauper. No. Get me the king immediately. Very well. Edward snatches the receiver and waits for his private line to connect. There's a long, irritating pause before Bertie speaks. Edward...
How are you? Destitute. How you expect us to live off this paltry sum is beyond me. I shall be bankrupt. You must help. Another pause. I'm not sure I can. Bertie, I'm begging you, as my brother. We agreed on allowance based on your personal wealth. But it seems you had additional assets you did not declare. Yes.
The line goes dead and exasperated Edward turns to the advisor. But when he does, the phone is answered by an unfamiliar voice.
Edward can't believe what he's hearing. He's horrified to feel hot, angry tears on his cheeks.
He hesitates and thinks back to Charles Bordeaux's offer, the state visit to Germany. Oh no. He'd excitedly proposed the idea to his brother. It was a game changer, a turning point for Anglo-German relations. Bertie had poured cold water over the whole thing. The situation is precarious and sending Edward over there would most likely do more harm than good. And now Bertie has made his feelings perfectly clear. He wants nothing to do with him.
Sir, are you still there? Very well. Would you let my brother know the Germans are very keen to meet my new wife and that I intend to accept their invitation? 30th of October, 1937. The Berghof Bavarian Alps. Edward breathes the thin, crisp air as the Mercedes prowls the mountain roads. Pastel-coloured villages weave in and out of view. Thick forests glow amber in the late autumn afternoon light.
He catches Wallace's eye with a contented smile. It's been so long since he was last in Germany, and yet he feels so completely at home. The German government has pulled out all the stops to welcome Edward and Wallace. They've been greeted everywhere by seas of Union Jacks, Nazi salutes, and choruses of the English national anthem. Wallace has been treated like a queen. Now it's time for the highlight of their trip, tea at Hitler's private residence.
On the driveway of a lumbering oversized chalet, Hitler greets Edward and Wallace like old friends. What a place you've got here! But Hitler clearly wants more than small talk. We welcome your visit. Your fellow countrymen have not been so forthcoming. Edward knows he has to choose his words carefully. I really agree with what you're doing. Bertie reluctantly signed off on the trip, but insisted Edward be briefed by Winston Churchill.
who had made Edward promise to refrain from talking politics. This is most sensitive, Your Majesty. We don't want to trigger a second Great War. The conversation had sent Edward into an awful rage. He was king before Bertie, for God's sake. He's not some bumbling fool. Hitler continues. You'll have seen we've made a great deal of improvements to the lives of the German people. Perhaps Britain should take note. I've been very impressed.
But your government chooses not to see that. They're far too quick to turn us into enemies when we're keen to find a peaceful alliance. It's insane to think of the Nazis as peaceful in any way, but they genuinely did have a lot of admiration for British society, for class and for hierarchy. They'd love this show. Yeah, they would. Edward bites his tongue.
He couldn't agree more. Peace at all costs. If that means appeasement, so be it. But he's determined to prove to the British government and his family that their lack of faith in him is unfounded. We very much enjoyed our visit. Well, this is something of a homecoming for you, is it not? Your family's true name is Saxe Coburg. Edward's surprised. He didn't expect this to come up, but he finds himself smiling...
Appearing satisfied, Hitler draws the meeting to a close. A throng of press photographers cheer the couple as they descend the slope to the waiting car. Hitler raises his hand in a parting Nazi salute. Edward hesitates. He knows his family won't be happy if this footage reaches England.
But these civilized people have treated him and Wallace with the utmost respect, and he intends to do the same. Edward raises his hand. The cameras flash. Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. At Mint Mobile, we like to do the opposite of what Big Wireless does. They charge you a lot. We charge you a little. So naturally, when they announced they'd be raising their prices due to inflation, we decided to deflate our prices due to not hating you.
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12th September 1939, the English Channel. Edward feels a jolt of excitement as Portsmouth Harbour rises from the mist. After two years in exile, he's coming home. Nine days ago, Edward had been sunbathing at his villa in Antibes when the call came through. Britain is at war with Germany. Edward is now determined to assist in any way he can with the war effort.
After all, he's well-placed. He already holds the ranks of admiral, field marshal and air marshal, not to mention his diplomatic relationship with both Britain and Germany. Surely Bertie will give him a role which befits his rank and abilities. Governor of Canada has a nice ring to it. The ship docks in Portsmouth. Murky cloud hangs over the city. Still, Edward assumes a stately expression and walks hand in hand down the gangway with his new wife.
His eyes searching through the throng of photographers for a royal welcoming party. But there's no one there. Only Alexandra, the wife of Edward's equerry, Fruity Metcalf. I really want to know more about Fruity Metcalf. I do. I want to know everything about Fruity Metcalf. Spin-off? Edward, Bertie thought you'd like to stay with us. What? Wally and I are staying at Windsor, are we not? Alexandra paints on a smile. I'll ask our man to get your bags. Edward nods, doing his best to hide his hurt.
Three days later, at Buckingham Palace, Edward peers through the smoke-filled study to make out Bertie sat at his desk, stubbing out a cigarette on a porcelain ashtray and then raising another to his lips. Despite everything, Edward feels a rush of affection for his brother, an urge to wrap him into a rough, back-slapping hug. Bertie! So good to see you! But Bertie's reply is curt, distant. I wish it was under better circumstances.
My apologies. Awful business. I'll make this quick. I don't want to keep you. From what? I'm not king anymore. Bertie doesn't so much as chuckle. Edward feels uneasy. He's not used to his little brother putting him on the back foot. I've spoken to the government and we feel it would be appropriate to offer you a position within the British military mission in France. Sorry? Sorry?
Major General, you'll be working under the command of Sir Richard Howard Vice, who by all accounts is a jolly decent chap. Under? That's below my rank. I'd have to give up my field marshal baton. We're all making sacrifices. You should be using me. I'm a soldier of the last war, a king. But Bertie doesn't even blink.
That is all I can offer. There's a stony resolve about Bertie that Edward's never seen in him before. One he recognises all too well from his father. He knows there's no changing his mind. Very well. Then I suppose I'll have to accept. Bertie stands up to shake his hand. Is he trying to get rid of him? But I should like to spend a month in England first, meeting the various Home Commands and such. Flaunting your wife before the British Army? No.
I'm afraid you wouldn't get a very warm reception here, unlike on your German jaunt. Edward stares at Bertie, anger building inside him. He stands up, giving his brother the slightest of bows before leaving. Outside, the grey, sodden English streets have never felt less like home. 7th May 1940, Paris, France. Wallace is tense. Where on earth is Edward? Guests will be arriving soon.
He's been in a fitful mood since their return from England. She hears him marauding about at night and knows the bottle of cologne in his room is filled with brandy. So Wallace has decided to help in the only way she knows how, a cocktail party. She looks at the clock, an hour to go. She slips into the deep blue tiled bathroom and drags a set of metal bathroom scales from under the sink. She takes a breath before stepping onto them and narrowly watches the little dial as it bounces about the screen.
She smiles. She's been substituting meals for whiskey and water, and it's working. Great diet. And when she says working, what does she mean? Slowly the body is shutting down. Yes, she's lighter. And her vital organs are struggling. Calm washes over her. She slips effortlessly into her gown. A floor-sweeping gold and black sequin number. And for a second, all feels right in the world. But an hour later, there's still no sign of Edward.
The first guest arrives, Charles Bordeaux. The hairs on the back of Wallace's neck prickle. She doesn't trust Bordeaux. Rumour has it he's a German spy. He's not been that discreet about it. But the Windsors don't have a great deal of choice when it comes to friends these days. Wallace affects her pleasant hostess smile. I have to apologise. My husband is awfully caught up in the war effort. Oh yes? What exactly is he working on?
Cautious, Wallace bats his questions away with a flirtatious slap on the arm. Now that doesn't sound like party talk. Another hour passes. The drawing room is almost full with Wallace's hodgepodge of invitees. Self-made party types, a smattering of movie stars and elegant fashion designers. Oh, and some fascist sympathisers. We're a broad church. Suddenly, Edward bursts in, dishevelled, his top three shirt buttons undone.
And his voice slurred. That's it. I'm jolly well resigning. Wallace feels her cheeks burn. Why don't you go and get changed? But Edward digs his heels in. I'm serious. I can't work a moment longer with these idiots. They don't trust me one jot. The whole position is a sham. They won't let me visit the soldiers on the front. I receive no confidential information. I used to be their king, for God's sake.
Well, then we'll celebrate that. Your freedom. I've laid a suit on your bed. Can't they see they need me? The whole operation's a mess. The French frontiers are in a state, particularly in the low countries, a little more German pressure, and the troops will be in retreat. As Wallace watches, Charles Bordeaux leaves to make a call. Wallace feels oddly nauseous. Has Edward said too much?
She ushers him quickly upstairs, out of Ea's reach. 20th of June, 1940. The Chateau de la Croix, south of France. Bit of trivia. That was Roman Abramovich's mansion until recently. The French confiscated it when Russia invaded Ukraine. What is this mad Airbnb site that is just for ethically dubious holidaymakers? Wonder if there were loads of Chelsea shirts on the wall back then.
Edward stands on a sandstone wall where the villa's long sloping garden gives way to the sea. Below him, waves hurtle incessantly on the gnarled rocks. He curses this blasted war. They'd come to the villa to feel safe for God's sake when the war in Paris became all too hard to ignore. But now, just as he'd predicted, the French frontiers have fallen. German troops are less than 200 miles away now and nothing will stop their advance.
Soon, their idyllic coastal retreat would be a battleground. He hadn't been able to watch, servants tossing what little possessions they can carry into trunks. Ottomans and chaise longues shrouded in dust sheets. The whole place looked as though somebody had died. He'd thought back to his last night in Fort Belvedere and wondered if he'd ever be allowed to feel at home anywhere again. Edward! Edward!
Please, we can't stay a moment longer. It's all right. I'll keep you safe. But at that moment, he has no idea how. Outside the house, the laden-down Buick already has its engine running.
Edward takes one final look at the villa's tranquil white columns as the car slowly veers out onto roads, gridlocked with distressed refugees, cradling their worldly possessions, desperately escaping France. After a hellish 48-hour drive, Edward wakes up in Lisbon, Portugal. After a fitful journey through Spain, he and Wallace are ensconced in the immaculate coral pink mansion of Ricardo Esperito Santa Silva.
Wrenched from early morning sleep by a long, desperate scream. Wallace. He's up in an instant, running down the corridor in only a vest and drawers, feet bare against the warm terracotta floor. He finds her on her knees in her bedchamber, huddled in her peach kimono. They arrived this morning. She nods to a garish bouquet of yellow, pink and orange dahlias lying crushed across the floor. Attached to the flowers is a note.
Beware of the machinations of the British Secret Service from a Portuguese friend who has your interests at heart. What? Edward immediately wraps her into his arms. It's nonsense. A silly jape. But you said yourself, Churchill, your own government, they don't trust you at all. Edward tries to cover his hurt with a chuckle. I hardly think they've cause to do away with me. Besides, my brother would never allow it. But Wallace is adamant.
He hasn't been your brother for three years. Edward, what if they've thrown us to the wolves? She sobs into his shoulder. Edward has never felt so useless, so alone. He has one job left in this world, to keep Wallace safe. And he can't even do that.
Surely the British wouldn't kill off a former king during a war. Although you would think that his confidence is probably corroded enough by this point that he would allow paranoia to creep in and think that it was genuine. 3rd of July, 1940. Lisbon, Portugal.
Edward walks into the gold-embossed study. His slim, serious host, Ricardo, is in deep conversation with an unfamiliar man, who has close-together eyes, a neat side parting, and a strapping frame. Your Majesty. Ricardo throws up his arms in greeting, but Edward hangs back. Wallace had begged Edward not to tell Ricardo about the anonymous note. What's to say we can trust these people either? But Edward had quickly dismissed her.
He's his friend, for God's sakes. Now, though, he feels oddly uneasy. The stranger bears a knowing smile. I was just leaving. Was that a Germanic twang? Edward tells himself he's being paranoid. Ricardo holds his hand out for the note. He examines it critically, squinting at it through steel-rimmed spectacles. Of course, it's probably a hoax. I just thought, if the British were getting desperate... Ricardo meets Edward's gaze.
"'What makes you say that, Your Majesty?' "'Nothing, nothing.' "'Come on, clearly you're worried.' "'No, really, I just... Well, we're going to lose the war. Poland, Belgium, Holland and France have fallen to the military might of the Reich. I shouldn't think Britain will be far behind.'
You think? I'm sure. If the Germans were to increase their aerial bombardments over London, Britain will surrender. But that doesn't mean, please God, that doesn't mean they're so desperate as to threaten me.
Did he actually say that then about the aerial bombardments? Because that is giving the enemy crucial information. Yeah, isn't this mad? So this is real. And we only have discovered this recently because it was under the Official Secrets Act. But yeah, it's been revealed that he said this. And we know how close he was to betraying the country.
That is absolutely incredible. So much of politics and history, those crucial turning point moments are about, not really always ideological loyalty, but if he'd have felt he was being looked after by his brother, he wouldn't be giving that information over. And you think it's going to be in a dramatic scene, don't you? But this is so casual. It's not under duress. This just reveals his immaturity and his ego that gets the better of him every time. Riccardo's round face looks grave.
He abruptly stands up and to Edward's horror, ushers in the stranger. This is my friend, Walter Schellenberg, from Berlin. Oh dear. Edward feels the blood drain from his face. Wallace is right. He's said too much. Walter throws up his arm in a Nazi salute. Your Majesty, we have similar intelligence. The British Secret Service feel you would be better off out of the picture. Edward can't believe what he's hearing. But...
I was their king. Perhaps we should not have mentioned anything, but I would hate to see anything happen to you or your lovely wife. Edward sinks into a chair. Walter crouches down in front of him. We can help you, Your Majesty. Refuge. Money, too. There are 50 million Swiss francs to be deposited into your bank account. All you have to do is return to Spain, where we can protect you.
Edward's taken aback. That's a trap, surely? But Ricardo places a hand on Walter's shoulder. We can trust him, I promise, as your friend. But why would the Nazis want to help me? Walter smiles. The Fuhrer in particular is extremely impressed with your majesty. When we invade England, it's their desire to put you on the throne.
The perfect symbol of unity, a half German, half English king, and his beautiful American queen. Edward stutters hurriedly. The British constitution would never allow it. But Ricardo simply shrugs. There will be no British constitution. As your majesty said, it will not be long before they surrender. As Edward clicks shut the study door, his stomach churns. For a moment, he allows his imagination to run wild.
He sees himself standing with Wallace in Westminster Abbey as crowds bow and cheer before them. A king making his rightful return. But what would that mean for his family? This season, Instacart has your back to school. As in, they've got your back to school lunch favorites like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back to school supplies like backpacks, binders and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.
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Inside, the king stands restlessly by the window, his brow furrowed. I take it this is about my brother? Churchill lowers himself onto a velvet armchair. He gestures for Bertie to join him, but the king keeps pacing the room like a caged animal. I must apologise. You have far more pressing things to be concerning yourself with than my family. I think it's best we bring the Duke back to England immediately.
Bertie shakes his head in alarm. And have him getting mixed up in the war effort, parading that woman around like a member of the royal family. I'm afraid the enemy in this situation is far greater than Wallace Simpson. All of a sudden, Bertie is still. He's staying in the home of Ricardo Esperito Santos Silva, a known Nazi sympathiser. And we've word that he's passing on
Sensitive information. What information? Churchill coughs, tries his best to phrase it delicately. Apparently, he told Silver the Germans should intensify their aerial bombardments on London. That way, Britain would surrender and the war would be over. The colour drains from Bertie's cheeks. Churchill feels a stab of pity.
No, he wouldn't. His mother is in London. His niece is. We must get him out of Europe. If this careless talk continues, the consequences will be grave. For him, as much as us. But England, surely he could just do as much damage over here. At least he'd be under our supervision. The king lights a cigarette. What about somewhere else?
Governor of the Bahamas, say. Churchill is surprised. We really think he'd accept that? Bertie nods slowly, as though convincing himself of it as he speaks. He was keen on Governor of Canada when war first broke out. And this, the title, it carries weight. Churchill is thoughtful. But it's far enough away not to cause you any trouble.
For the first time, Bertie's hunched shoulders relax. Precisely. Churchill hauls himself out of the chair. He's going to have to rely on all his diplomacy skills to talk Edward round. But he knows he must succeed. After all, the alternatives don't bear thinking about. 7th of July, 1940. Lisbon, Portugal. Edward shoves open Wallace's bedroom door and waves a telegram in her half-made-up face.
That's it. From the horse's mouth itself. Winston Churchill wants me dead. That escalated quickly. Wallace drops her coal pencil and snatches the telegram, folding her arms over her skimpy silk slip as she reads. Your Royal Highness has taken active military rank and refusal to obey direct orders of competent military authority would create a serious situation. I hope it will not be necessary for such orders to be sent.
"'Serious situation? He means court-martial. They'd court-martial their own king if I don't follow orders and take up this new position.' "'What new position?' "'It's nothing. Their way of keeping me out of trouble.' "'This isn't a time for pride. If he's serious—' But Edward won't back down. "'What about Germany? They want to help us. If we go to Spain—' Wallace shakes her head. Even she doesn't trust his judgment.'
They want me to use my skills, make me king. I'm just not sure we can trust them. Edward snatches the telegram from her. Well, after this, we sure as hell can't trust the British. Edward stalks out the room, thrusting the now crumpled telegram into the hands of a servant. Tell Mr Churchill I reject his proposal. I won't have him bully me out of the picture.
Hours later, Edward is snatched from sleep by the ear-splitting ring of the telephone. He answers, voice muddled and groggy. Why on earth are you telephoning at this hour? On the end of the line, Churchill's voice is steely calm. I must say, I'm rather disappointed you were so quick to reject this new position. It's a vital role. Ensuring the Commonwealth remains united. It will require someone with leadership skills.
Edward so wants to believe him. It's out of the way, you mean? Not at all. How do I know your Secret Service won't do away with me and Wallace on the boat? Your Highness. I have sources claiming the British Secret Service pose a danger to myself and Wally. Only the other day we received a note. But Edward is shocked to hear Churchill roar. The danger is in your own household. The Prime Minister draws a long sigh.
Edward scoffs. My brother's never cared one jot for Wallace's safety. Again, Churchill's tone is strained. Operation Willie.
The Germans intend to coerce you over to their side, kidnap you if necessary. Edward feels his patience wearing thin. Nonsense! The only coercion I've experienced is from your own aside. They intend to bring you over to their side with the false promise of making you king. But once they have you, I fear, they intend to murder you. Murder? Edward's mouth goes dry.
The receiver falls from his hand. Clearly he's been used as a pawn, wrenched between two warring sides. And he has absolutely no idea who to trust, his country or their enemy.
It's almost like the word enemy is a bit of a clue. I just can't believe this is the moment it's dawning on him. Even if you were entering into that, you would do so so cautiously with your wits about you and your guard up. But he's like, gonna be king, gonna be king. 10th of July, 1940. Lisbon, Portugal. Edward watches from the back gate as Wallace carefully locks her bedroom door, turns on her shower and exits quietly through the French windows.
She crosses the walled garden towards him, turning back every so often to make sure she's not being followed. "'You're quite sure this is safe?' she asks in a low voice. "'Going out without the guards, I mean.' But Edward grips both her thin, pale arms. "'We can't risk anyone overhearing.' They turn onto dusty streets, heaving with traffic. Off-duty soldiers lean on street corners in rolled-up shirt sleeves. Women scurry, arms laden with groceries."
No one so much as looks twice at Wallace and Edward, hunched together, speaking in harried tones. If we accept the Bahamas post, that's it. We'll spend our lives firmly under the thumb of the British government. Never trusted. Always a problem to be dealt with. But it sounds like we'll be safe. But with Germany, there's still a chance. No. Wallace's pace quickens. He struggles to keep up.
"'I know the risks, but Wally, darling, think about it. "'You'd be my queen. Take your rightful place.' "'The wide street leads out onto the bustling port, "'the whole place alive with packing cases, hulking military ships, laughter and chaos. "'I don't care, Edward. "'I'm fed up of running across Europe "'with the vague hope that one day you might be king again. "'Look at us, creeping out of the house for fear we'll be heard.'
Edward can't believe what he's hearing. Wallace takes his hand, squeezes it till her knuckles go white. The images of a coronation, of standing with Wallace in Westminster Abbey, people bowing and cheering.
They're already beginning to melt away as Edward and Wallace keep walking, weaving aimlessly through the midday crowds. 13 years later, the 2nd of June, 1953. Jufsir Yvette, France. Wallace is in her element. She breezes about the 353-year-old millhouse in a whirl of nervous excitement.
In the green carpeted bathrooms, she preens the arrangements of guest soaps, bath salts and Alka-Seltzer. Next, she rushes through to the yellow felt guest bedrooms to assess the offer of shaving tools and cocktail garnishes. She smiles as she ticks each item off in a powder blue leather list book. They're ready. After 12 months of meticulous remodelling, Edward and Wallace are preparing to welcome a raft of fashionable guests to their new home, Le Moulin, for the first time.
Outside, the former barn has been remodelled into an immaculate summer dining room, swathed in white delphiniums from Edward's affectionately tended French-English country garden. It's a hostess's paradise. From the bedroom window, Wallace spots a silver Mercedes crawling up the long manicured drive. She follows the faint burr of a television set to the study, where Edward leans forward in a wingback chair, eyes trained on his niece Elizabeth's coronation ceremony.
"Darling, the guests are here!" Edward takes a brief and Wallace fancies wistful glance back at screen, before bounding to his feet, snapping off the television set, and heading out to join the party. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor remained together for the rest of their lives, although they never returned to Britain. Instead, they lived between their villa in Paris and Le Moulin in the south of France.
They were fixtures of café society, travelling between Paris and New York for the most glamorous parties. Some say they even invented the fashion of naked sunbathing. Though Wallace was never fully accepted by the royal family, the Duke's niece, Elizabeth II, did visit the couple in Paris several times, including 10 days before his death. Edward died of throat cancer on the 28th of May 1972, less than a month before his 78th birthday.
His body was brought back to Britain, where he was buried at Windsor Castle. Wallis was allowed to stay in Buckingham Palace for the duration of her trip. Wallis slowly became a recluse following the death of her husband. She developed dementia, lost the ability to speak, and towards the end of her life, refused to receive any visitors. She died on the 24th of April 1986 and was buried next to her husband as Wallis, Duchess of Windsor.
Secret documents revealing Edward's flirtation with Nazism were revealed earlier this year. The former king was reported to have said, as late as 1941, that Hitler was the right and logical leader of the German people.
This is the third episode in our series, Abdication. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatizations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read King Edward VIII by Philip Ziegler, Duchess, the story of Wallace Warfield Windsor by Stephen Birmingham, The
The Crown in Crisis, Countdown to Abdication by Alexander Laman and Traitor King, The Scandalous Exile of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor by Andrew Lowney. I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. Lydia Marchant wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac. Our associate producer is Francesca Gelardi Quadriocorsio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes.
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