The trip to London which he had no doubt promised himself was not to take place. If he had thought to have a pleasant reunion with his family he was mistaken.

He was depressed and angry. For the first time in his life he was in revolt, but when he considered what he had done he was appalled. He had been eight years in the Navy during which time he had conformed to discipline and now some spirit had got into him and he had flown straight into the face of authority.

What would they do to him? He did not care much. Perhaps he was tired of never being at home for long; perhaps he wanted an end to the wandering life. He had seen a great deal of the world. Was he to roam all his life?

And now here he was confined to Plymouth with none of the amusements he had promised himself. It was as bad here as it would have been in Quebec. He might as well have stayed there and prevented all the fuss.

While he was brooding on his wrongs and studying the accounts of the damage to the ship one of his men came to tell him that visitors had arrived and were asking to see him.

He grimaced. No doubt Lord Chatham, the First Lord; or some such dignitary come to lecture him, or worse still.

‘Bring them in,’ he said.

They came. He stared; then he gave a cry of joy; he flung himself into their arms.

‘If you could not come to London,’ said the Prince of Wales, ‘there was only one thing for Fred and me to do. So we did it, didn’t we, Fred? We came to Plymouth.’

The brothers were laughing and hugging each other. William felt suddenly emotional, and seeing this the Prince produced his ever-ready tears.

‘Of course we came. We weren’t going to let you be bored to death in Plymouth. Have you forgotten the old motto?’

‘I haven’t,’ cried William.

Frederick grinned. ‘United we stand,’ he said.

There were gay occasions in Plymouth. Surely it was a time for celebrations with three princes in the city, and one of them the heir to the throne.

The Prince of Wales with his brothers made a tour of the dockyards much to the delight of the people of the town who flocked out in their thousands to welcome them.

In the suburb of Stonehouse where the assembly rooms were situated gala balls and banquets were arranged. Wherever the Prince of Wales appeared there was elegance, and Plymouth wanted to show it could entertain royalty as well as Brighton or Cheltenham, Worthing or Weymouth. In the Long Room at Stonehouse the Prince danced with the ladies, and Frederick and William did their duty with him. There was racing and gambling and for three days Plymouth was as gay and famous as Brighton and London.

William, happy to gain what he had come home for and what he had feared would be denied him – his brothers’ company – was full of high spirits. He was more at home in Plymouth than his brothers were, being the sailor of the family. He could talk of ships in a manner which amused the Prince of Wales while it won his admiration.

Accompanied by his brothers George drove his phaeton through the town and into the surrounding country and it was touching to see how delighted the people were to have a glimpse of their future King. George was in his element, gracious, charming, courteous and witty.

They were three exciting days.

During them William fell in love. She was a pretty girl named Miss Wynn and they immediately called attention to their feeling for each other because at the Long Room they were together throughout the ball and neither danced with anyone else.

The poet Peter Pindar who invariably brought out verses to suit every occasion wrote:

‘A town where, exiled by the higher powers

The Royal Tar with indignation lours;

Kept by his sire from London and from sin,

To say his catechism to Mistress Wynn.’

The verses were circulated and everywhere the revelries of the three brothers were being discussed. When they were brought to the King’s notice he ground his teeth in anger and wept with frustration. His sons flouted him, he complained; and he could not sleep at night for worrying about them. It seemed to the Queen that he was moving towards some fearful climax.

The Prince of Wales and Duke of York were accorded a royal salute as they rode out of Plymouth, and when they had left Captain Horatio Nelson sailed into the harbour where to William’s delight he spent a few weeks.

It was very pleasant to be in the company of this brilliant sailor, though it was very different from that of the Princes. With Nelson to listen to, William’s friendship with Miss Wynn began to wane; he became very interested in the Navy once more and was fired with enthusiasm to follow Horatio Nelson.

The Admiralty thought it was high time some action should be taken and William was transferred to the Andromeda and ordered to sail for Halifax.

The Queen was growing more and more worried about the King’s health although she sought to hide her fears from him and everyone else. While he was aware of his affliction he could to some extent control it but the Queen’s dread was that he would become unaware of it and be unable to hide his growing aberrations.

He was in a continual state of anxiety. Ever since the loss of the American Colonies he had been fretful; he blamed himself for this colossal blunder – and not without reason; the conduct of his sons was a perpetual source of worry. He would wake in the night and cry out: ‘Is he married to that woman? Is it true that she’s a Catholic, eh, what?’ Almost everything he said was in the form of a question ending in ‘eh, what?’ which his listeners found most disconcerting for they never could be sure whether or not an answer was expected.

The Queen thought that it might relieve the King to see a good play but she hesitated to suggest a visit to the theatre. She was terrified every time the King appeared in public; but some diversion was necessary so she hit on the idea of inviting a few actors and actresses to Windsor Castle to perform for the King.

The leading actress at Drury Lane was Mrs Siddons and she would suggest to Mr Sheridan that a little troupe headed by this lady should come to perform before herself and the King.

Mr Sheridan with his usual grace declared that nothing could be simpler and that Mrs Siddons and her fellow actors and actresses would be overwhelmed by the honour.

The actors came and the play was performed. The King sat through it smiling, applauding, and when it was over he asked that Mrs Siddons be brought to him for he had something to say to her.

Sarah entered the anteroom in which he was to receive her as only Sarah could. She made a drama of the most insignificant happening, but no one could say that being personally thanked by the King – which she was sure this was to be – was insignificant.

She prepared to declaim in her wonderful voice the speech which she had prepared – and rehearsed – when the King began to mumble something she could not understand and thrust a paper into her hand.

‘For you,’ he said. ‘For you. For you. Very good, eh? Gratitude, what? Very good.’

She was dismissed clutching the paper and when she looked at it she found it was blank except that he had signed it.

She stared at it in amazement for some moments and then she said aloud as though it was the last line of a scene before the curtain fell: ‘The King is mad.’

The Queen sat holding the piece of paper. Mrs Siddons had brought it to her with a display of distress, declaring that she believed it her duty to do so.

‘I have wrestled with myself,’ said the actress, striking her left hand against her breast. ‘I have asked myself what I should do. And my conscience tells me that I should bring this to Your Majesty. His Majesty presented it to me as though it were some insignia of honour. Your Majesty, I greatly fear that the King is ill.’

The Queen thanked Mrs Siddons. She had done right in bringing the paper to her, she said. There was some mistake, of course. At a convenient time she would ask His Majesty what his intentions were.

And when Mrs Siddons had gone she sat down wearily.

Was this the end of her endeavours to hide the state of his health? Was the truth to be betrayed at last?

It seemed so, for events moved quickly after that. The King was acting strangely and the whole royal household knew it. The Princesses whispered together and sat silent in the presence of their mother, working at their embroidery, filling her snuff boxes and taking care of the dogs – which was, they complained bitterly to each other, all their lives consisted of.

But something was about to happen.

Frederick sent urgent messages to the Prince of Wales in Brighton; he should be at hand, for the King was very ill indeed – not only physically ill, although he had high temperature and a chill, but strangely ill.

The Prince came at once, driving his phaeton from Brighton at a great speed; and that night at dinner the King rose suddenly from his seat and approaching his eldest son seized him by the throat and tried to strangle him.

There could be no disguising the fact.

The King was mad. His doctors must be called and the almost certainty of a Regency discussed.

The struggle over the Regency Bill began, with the Queen and the Prince of Wales in opposing camps. The Queen who had doted on her eldest son, who had had a wax image made when he was a baby so that she might remember for ever his perfections and gaze on them every day – for it stood on her dressing table – had been consistently flouted by him and shut out of his life. Because of this her love had changed. If he had given her the slightest consideration she would have been ready to love him; but hurt and humiliated by his neglect she forced herself to hate him. Her emotion towards him – love or hatred – was the strongest in her life.