patch of autumnal sky I can see from the high, cobweb-encrusted window. It looks like it will be a dry morning, a good omen, as there were heavy rain showers on the journey to Windsor Castle, where I stayed overnight before continuing to London.
I wonder how Catherine is. She had no involvement in the planning of her son’s coronation ceremony, yet tells me that suits her, as long as they do not expect too much of Harry. We have always known the ceremony will be in Westminster Abbey, and Catherine has secured me a good vantage-point as a royal usher, helping the great and the good of England to find their places in the crowded aisles.
It means I am present at the dress rehearsal in the Abbey the previous evening and have time to visit the magnificent tomb of King Henry V. I stand before it in silence for a moment, marvelling at the craftsmanship of the effigy in the king’s likeness, and wonder what the late king would have to say about his wife now being her servant’s lover. The thought seems irreverent in the hallowed cloisters of Westminster Abbey.
On the great day I dress in my fine livery and share bread and cheese in the servants’ kitchen. There is a buzz of anticipation, with many people coming and going and shouting orders. I spare a thought for the young king, who has spent the eve of his coronation in the Tower of London, where, in keeping with tradition, he has created more than thirty new knights.
I am kept busy in the crowded aisles of the abbey, as some guests complain they are too far away while others try to use their rank to demand a better seat. Then a distant cheer from the waiting crowd is followed by a shrill fanfare of trumpets, announcing the arrival of the king’s procession. Harry has travelled through the city from the Tower, riding a white horse and led by the Earl of Warwick as his guardian and governor.
The trumpeters sound again and then the choir sing the Te Deum , the surreal, unearthly sound reverberating around the towering abbey and making the hairs stand up on my arms. The formal ceremony in the abbey is mercifully short. Cardinal Henry Beaufort has altered the traditional coronation ceremony to include French practices, as his intention is to show this is only the first part of a fuller coronation, which must be completed in France.
I feel proud of the young king, who looks small, surrounded by bishops who seem taller and grander in their high-pointed ceremonial mitres. Henry Beaufort sits to the king’s right and Duke Humphrey to his left. I fix the scene in my mind so I can describe it to Catherine on my return. Archbishop Henry Chichele, who crowned Catherine and presided over Harry’s christening, anoints the young king with miraculous holy oil from the golden eagle and ampulla. Harry looks serious as the heavy gold crown of St Edward the Confessor is placed firmly on his head.
After the ceremony, a splendid feast is held in Westminster Hall. The first course is venison and ham painted with gold, beef and mutton, cygnets and herons, with a great pike served in the mouth of a golden lion. The second course of whole pigs, roasted and glazed, is followed by the grand birds, crane and bittern, partridges and peacocks.
Next a whole antelope is served, with a golden crown around his neck on a chain of solid gold. The final course is of smaller birds, egrets, curlews, snipes and larks. Carp and crabs are served with a cold meat pie in the shape of a shield representing the royal arms in red and gold. The centrepiece this time is a figurine of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Christ in her arms.
The sun is a blindingly dark orange, low on the horizon, as I return to my lodgings. I am pleased for Harry that this ordeal at least is over. The weather has remained fine and the coronation has attracted the largest crowds seen in London for years. I share a room with soldiers who had been holding back the crowds. One of them tells me he saw a woman crushed to death and a number
I wonder how Catherine is. She had no involvement in the planning of her son’s coronation ceremony, yet tells me that suits her, as long as they do not expect too much of Harry. We have always known the ceremony will be in Westminster Abbey, and Catherine has secured me a good vantage-point as a royal usher, helping the great and the good of England to find their places in the crowded aisles.
It means I am present at the dress rehearsal in the Abbey the previous evening and have time to visit the magnificent tomb of King Henry V. I stand before it in silence for a moment, marvelling at the craftsmanship of the effigy in the king’s likeness, and wonder what the late king would have to say about his wife now being her servant’s lover. The thought seems irreverent in the hallowed cloisters of Westminster Abbey.
On the great day I dress in my fine livery and share bread and cheese in the servants’ kitchen. There is a buzz of anticipation, with many people coming and going and shouting orders. I spare a thought for the young king, who has spent the eve of his coronation in the Tower of London, where, in keeping with tradition, he has created more than thirty new knights.
I am kept busy in the crowded aisles of the abbey, as some guests complain they are too far away while others try to use their rank to demand a better seat. Then a distant cheer from the waiting crowd is followed by a shrill fanfare of trumpets, announcing the arrival of the king’s procession. Harry has travelled through the city from the Tower, riding a white horse and led by the Earl of Warwick as his guardian and governor.
The trumpeters sound again and then the choir sing the Te Deum , the surreal, unearthly sound reverberating around the towering abbey and making the hairs stand up on my arms. The formal ceremony in the abbey is mercifully short. Cardinal Henry Beaufort has altered the traditional coronation ceremony to include French practices, as his intention is to show this is only the first part of a fuller coronation, which must be completed in France.
I feel proud of the young king, who looks small, surrounded by bishops who seem taller and grander in their high-pointed ceremonial mitres. Henry Beaufort sits to the king’s right and Duke Humphrey to his left. I fix the scene in my mind so I can describe it to Catherine on my return. Archbishop Henry Chichele, who crowned Catherine and presided over Harry’s christening, anoints the young king with miraculous holy oil from the golden eagle and ampulla. Harry looks serious as the heavy gold crown of St Edward the Confessor is placed firmly on his head.
After the ceremony, a splendid feast is held in Westminster Hall. The first course is venison and ham painted with gold, beef and mutton, cygnets and herons, with a great pike served in the mouth of a golden lion. The second course of whole pigs, roasted and glazed, is followed by the grand birds, crane and bittern, partridges and peacocks.
Next a whole antelope is served, with a golden crown around his neck on a chain of solid gold. The final course is of smaller birds, egrets, curlews, snipes and larks. Carp and crabs are served with a cold meat pie in the shape of a shield representing the royal arms in red and gold. The centrepiece this time is a figurine of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Christ in her arms.
The sun is a blindingly dark orange, low on the horizon, as I return to my lodgings. I am pleased for Harry that this ordeal at least is over. The weather has remained fine and the coronation has attracted the largest crowds seen in London for years. I share a room with soldiers who had been holding back the crowds. One of them tells me he saw a woman crushed to death and a number
Similar Books
