‘No, that isn’t how we will do it,’ he said. Then, nodding towards me, he continued: ‘Charles is representing his sister and their family, so he will walk in the middle, with William and Harry either side of him, and you and I will be on the outside flanks.’
Prince Charles looked pained but capitulated to his father’s authority without a word.
Having progressed from her home at Kensington Palace, along Kensington High Street, and through Hyde Park, Diana’s coffin now arrived in front of us, on top of a gun carriage – a vehicle that struck me as being completely at odds with my sister’s inherent love of peace.
I was struck by the ghastly beauty of it all. White flowers were laid out on the coffin – lilies from my family and me, with a bouquet up front that particularly drew the eye. It showed the agonising word ‘Mummy’ on its card, in a young hand.
That, for me, remains the searing image of the day: a son’s silent, written cry of desolation, to a mother, gone.
I could not get over how tiny, and slight, and bereft Harry looked. Too small to be doing this, I thought, and wondered how on earth this heartbroken child could bear the ordeal of that moment, or how he could possibly be expected to deal with the agony that the day ahead would insist upon.
William, although doubtless suffering equally terribly, looked more self-possessed. He was the image of his mother then: tall and handsome and dignified. Although I cared deeply about what he must be going through, his greater composure and maturity made him my secondary concern that morning.
Before we set off, Prince Philip told us with continued quiet authority that we must march together, so that we did not look like we were simply out for a stroll. We must try to stay in step.
We should also look directly ahead at all times, with our heads bowed. While this would help to lend us a somewhat martial air, the advice was also practical: keeping our eyes front would help us sidestep what we were warned would be the inevitable scattering of horse droppings in our path.
What followed was the most harrowing experience of my life, far more so than reading my eulogy, and one that has been replayed for me in dozens of fitful nightmares since.
It was hellish, entering that tunnel of grief, particularly because we were unable to put a face to it by looking at the individuals in the crowd.
We were buffeted by the rawest of emotions on a terrible scale, for the longest time, and we could not process it. We could just feel it.
The five of us quickly picked up a rhythm that we struggled to stick to, as we headed into the horror.
It was those endless waves of emotion, crashing in at us from every side, that took their toll. Despite being so well-meaning, they constituted a form of mental torture.
There could be silence, apart from the sobs, for 100 yards or so, then a voice might wail mournfully, provoking a chorus of ‘We love you, Diana!’ while others shouted out messages of compassion and support for William and Harry.
Many sections of this endless, engrossed mass seemed caught up in a rippling grief that was very much alive, and dangerously contagious, sparking into life in a dozen dizzying directions, while remaining squarely focused on our pitiful parade.
What was Prince Charles actually doing there? I thought at one moment. This ex-husband, from a marriage that had collapsed so bitterly four years before and finally ended in divorce a year earlier, surely had no place at his ex’s funeral.
Supporting his sons was the reason given for his prominent place, but what were the boys doing there, anyway? It all seemed mad to me.
I was anxious that I could not look sideways to check how Harry was doing. But at one point I found us marching briefly out of sight, under a massive arch. Relieved that nobody could see us here, I quickly leant across to Harry, and gave him an encouraging hug.
‘Well done, Harry!’ I said. ‘You’re doing bloody brilliantly!’
We then carried on, five abreast, in sombre silent step before the world.
When we arrived at the Great West Door of Westminster Abbey, eight strapping soldiers, chosen for the Princess of Wales from the Welsh Guards, stepped forward to take charge of the coffin.
Diana’s bespoke casket, thickly lined with lead, weighed her pall-bearers down to such a worrying degree that they buckled. For a moment I thought they might not manage the weight of it and could even let it crash to the ground.
But the guardsmen dug into their reserves and determinedly shouldered the burden.
I was shown to my place, next to my mother, in the North Lantern of the Abbey and looked round at my close family, who were white with desolation.
Beyond the coffin, in the South Lantern, sat the serried ranks of the Royal Family. I thought how some had supported her in life while others had taken delight in the demotion that had followed her divorce.
I saw the face of Princess Michael, whom Diana had considered her ‘nightmare neighbour’ at Kensington Palace. She had accosted my sister after she was deprived of her HRH title, and said, with feigned kindness: ‘Don’t worry, Diana – you only need to curtsy to me when we are in public!’
There was Princess Margaret, who had been a good ally of Diana till the Panorama interview had taken place. Margaret could never forgive what she viewed as an unforgivable act of treachery against the Royal Family and had chosen not to bow to Diana’s coffin when it had passed her that morning.
I could not help looking repeatedly at my nephews. I felt compelled to check how they were doing, but I did not want to catch their eye in case they felt they were being judged or stared at.
They had no privacy, sitting so near to their mother’s coffin, the world caring for them very much while devouring their every move.
I have just watched my eulogy, as I write this, having not seen it for more than quarter of a century.
I recall the walk to the pulpit, climbing the steps, and the fear that I would not get through the words on the sheets of loose paper I had unfurled from my pocket. I knew that if I stopped at any point, I would not be able to start again. Momentum would be the key.
When I got to my favourite line in the speech, ‘Perhaps the greatest irony about Diana’s life is this: that a girl given the name of the ancient goddess of hunting was, in the end, the most hunted woman of the modern age’, it was a relief finally to lay out the true horror of Diana’s ordeal, in language that begged to be noticed.
I remember registering the surprise in Westminster Abbey when I delivered such a startling thought. But then I felt all those around me settle, as they realised that my accusation was true, and fair, and appalling. How had we all let it happen?
By far the hardest part of my tribute to Diana came when delivering its last paragraphs. By that stage I had expended all my reserves – both of energy and self-control.
I was floundering fast, while aware that I was coming up hard against the most personal and affecting passage of my text:
‘William and Harry, we all care desperately for you today. We are all chewed up with sadness at