Authors: Rebecca Dean
Once in the abbey, David was blessedly relieved of all responsibility for anyone but himself. The focus of all eyes and accompanied
by a fanfare of silver trumpets, he walked up the ancient nave with a retinue of attendants, his plumed hat in his hand.
On either side, heads bowed in acknowledgment and then, after a walk as long as eternity, he finally reached his chair in the south transept. Behind him, in crimson robes, the peers of the realm were seated, row upon dizzying row. Somewhere among them was Lord May, but he couldn’t distinguish him among the sea of faces.
His brothers were now making their way to their places in the royal gallery, pausing to bow to him as they did so. Mary, looking very grave, curtsied deeply, and in response he rose to his feet.
Immediately he knew that it was the wrong thing to have done. The earl marshal had told him that once seated for the obeisances, he was not to rise. His cheeks flushed and he wondered how many people had noticed his gaffe and whether his father would be told of it. After that, as those of the Blood Royal made their obeisance to him on their way to the royal boxes, his only acknowledgment was an inclination of his head.
Slowly, and with regal grandeur, the royal boxes began to fill. Opposite David thin shafts of sunlight fell upon the peeresses seated in the south transept. Above them, azure hangings served as backdrop to the galleried seating for members of Parliament and their wives.
Finally, at eleven o’clock, there came the booming sound of guns and loud cheering from outside the abbey. David breathed in hard. His mother would enter the abbey first, and he found it impossible to imagine what her feelings would be. Never, under any circumstances, did his mother show emotion. She would be rigidly in control of herself—and would expect him to be rigidly in control of himself also. Determined not to let her down, he took another deep, steadying breath.
Through the abbey’s great west door his mother’s procession entered to the fanfare of the coronation anthem.
She was wearing a gown of white satin thickly embroidered
with gold. Attached to her shoulders, her deep purple robe, lined with ermine and dotted with ermine tails, stretched out in a long train carried by the daughters of six earls.
David felt the blood drum in his ears. One day, the girl he married would also enter the abbey in such a way. The same magnificent anthem would be sung to greet her; the throne his mother was now standing in front of would be her throne. The girl in question, he fervently hoped, would be Miss Lily Houghton.
With a struggle, he forced his thoughts away from the future and Lily and back to the present. The atmosphere in the abbey had reached fever pitch, for the King’s procession was now making its way down the blue-carpeted nave. There were ecclesiastics, heralds, attendants, high officers of his household, and representatives of all the various orders of knighthoods.
They were followed by Lord Kitchener carrying the sword of temporal justice, Lord Roberts carrying the sword of spiritual justice, and the Duke of Beaufort carrying the sword of mercy.
Then came the bishops of London, Ripon, and Winchester, carrying the gold Communion plate, the Bible, and the chalice.
After them came the King.
He was wearing a crimson surcoat and the crimson velvet robe of state, with an ermine cape over his shoulders. His massive train was borne by eight scarlet-costumed pages, and he was flanked by twenty gentlemen-at-arms. Bringing up the rear of the procession were twenty Yeomen of the Guard.
The sheer majesty of his father’s appearance took David’s breath away. His father looked exactly what he was: a King-Emperor, ruler of over a quarter of the earth’s surface. How was he, David, ever to stand one day in his father’s place? The very idea was beyond his imagination.
As his father knelt before the altar, the archbishop prepared to administer the coronation oath. David bit his lip, hoping fervently that his father’s voice would be firm and strong.
It was.
After the oath, Holy Communion was celebrated and then came the most sacred part of the coronation ceremony: the anointing and crowning.
With the aid of the Lord Great Chamberlain and the Master of the Robes, King George’s crimson robe was replaced by the austere plain white anointing gown. Then the choir began singing the anthem “Zadok the Priest,” and he was led to St. Edward’s chair, used for coronations since medieval times.
The Dean of Westminster poured consecrated oil from an eagle-shaped ampulla into a spoon, and then, as all those within the abbey held their breath in reverent awe, the Archbishop of Canterbury anointed King George on his hands, his breast, and his head.
The King was then enrobed in a white garment of fine linen over which was placed an ankle-length coat of cloth of gold, lined with rose-colored silk and fastened by a jeweled sword belt.
David glanced across to where his brothers were seated. Bertie was so white-faced and tense he looked as if he were about to faint. Harry and Georgie were round-eyed with wonder.
Now the crown jewels were being handed to his father. First was the orb, a golden sphere set with precious stones and surmounted by a cross representing Christian sovereignty. Having received it, his father handed the orb back to the archbishop for it to be laid upon the altar. Then the archbishop put a ruby ring, representing the “marriage” between him and the nation, on the fourth finger of the King’s left hand. Next he handed him two scepters, one surmounted by a gilded dove, symbolizing the sovereign’s prerogative of mercy, the other by a cross, symbolizing kingly power and justice.
As the King held them vertically upright, the scepter with the cross in his right hand, the scepter with the dove in his left hand, the Dean of Westminster brought St. Edward’s Crown, magnificent on a purple, gold-tasseled cushion, to the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Standing before the altar, the archbishop dedicated the crown.
A shiver ran down David’s spine. This was it. The moment of
crowning. The moment that unless he died before his father, he, too, would one day experience.
Slowly the archbishop lifted the jewel-encrusted crown high and then, with great reverence, lowered it on George V’s head.
Immediately the abbey erupted with threefold shouts of “God Save the King!” Coronets and caps were put on heads. Trumpets sounded. Drums thundered. Cannon boomed from the Tower of London. Salvos of artillery came from the royal parks.
For David the worst part—the Homage of the Lords—began.
Symbolically taking possession of his kingdom, his father was led from St. Edward’s chair to the throne. The archbishop stepped before him, knelt, and swore his fealty. Then it was David’s turn.
With his Tudor bonnet exchanged for a coronet, David rose to his feet and moved forward, his heart beating like a piston. With his sword cumbersomely at his side, he knelt at his father’s feet and said in a voice that seemed to him to come from a million miles away, “I, Edward, Prince of Wales, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship; and faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live and die against all manner of folks. So help me God.”
He’d done it. It was over. Unsteadily he rose to his feet. His father kissed him on both cheeks, and for once David sensed great emotion in his father.
He, too, was overcome with emotion as, weak with relief at having his ordeal over, he watched the Duke of Connaught pay his homage, followed by a representative of each order of the peerage. Fervently he wished that Lily was in the abbey, that she, too, was experiencing the mesmerizing splendor of the sacred thousand-year-old ritual.
All through the far simpler ceremony of his mother’s enthronement as Queen Consort, he thought of Lily and of the magical way she had so suddenly entered and transformed his life. Because of Lily his loneliness and desperate sense of isolation were things of the past. Because of Lily he was happy.
As the crown with the legendary Koh-i-Noor diamond blazing
from its center cross was placed on his mother’s head, the peeresses put on their coronets.
His father then exchanged St. Edward’s Crown for the imperial state crown and began making his way out of the abbey, the scepter with the cross in one hand, and the orb in the other.
David felt as if his heart was going to burst with pride. It had been a wonderful service. A magnificent service. For the first time ever he began to wonder if becoming a king wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
The horse-drawn gold carriage that was to carry him, his brothers, and Mary by a circuitous route back to Buckingham Palace edged to a halt in front of the abbey’s great west door. It was smack on a quarter past two and, though the day was gray and windy, the stands and tiers fronting the abbey were jammed to capacity with waving well-wishers.
David waved back with a shy smile and the crowds went wild. It was as if Bertie, Mary, Harry, and Georgie didn’t exist.
As his name was shouted out from every quarter, David was filled with euphoria. This part of prince-ing—making contact instantaneously with crowds of people he had never met—and never would meet—sent a surge of adrenaline through him. All he wished was that he wasn’t dressed in such a preposterous rig. Then he would feel comfortable. A coronet was not agreeable headgear. Already it felt heavy. By the time they reached Buckingham Palace he knew it was going to feel like a ten-ton weight.
When the giant procession reached Trafalgar Square, it didn’t turn left through Admiralty Arch; it turned right, into the Strand, heading for Fleet Street. Every inch of pavement was packed with flag-waving spectators, many of whom had been waiting for the procession since the previous evening. Every window was open and jammed with people. To David, it seemed as if the whole world had zeroed down to a sea of furiously waving Union Jacks.
Up Ludgate Hill they went, and around St. Paul’s Cathedral. Then the mile-long procession began making its way back to the
palace. The nearer they drew to Piccadilly, the more taut became David’s excitement and sense of expectation. By now the front of the procession would be passing Lady Sibyl Harland’s town house. Was Lily looking forward to waving to him as much as he was looking forward to waving to her?
Piccadilly Circus was mayhem. There were so many people wedged into it, David could only imagine that the rest of the country was empty. And then they were turning onto St. James’s Street.
He pressed himself as close to the right-hand side of the carriage as possible and, ignoring the waving crowds on the pavement, he looked eagerly upward.
There was the house.
There was the window.
There was Lily.
Not caring about being discreet he shouted her name, only to have it drowned by the shouts of the crowd and the triumphant sound of the band of the Brigade of Guards marching only yards ahead of him.
At the sight of him, Lily’s face lit up. She leaned so dangerously far over the wrought-iron balcony that Rose had to grab hold of her and steady her. Though he couldn’t hear her, he saw that she was shouting his name. But unlike everyone else that day, she was not shouting “Edward!” but “David!”
The carriage began taking him farther and farther away from the house, and he twisted round in his seat, still waving toward her furiously.
“Is that her, David?” Bertie shouted across to him above the noise of the band and the crowds.
David nodded. “Yes!” he shouted back. “That’s Lily! That’s the girl I’m going to marry, Bertie! When I’m King, that’s the girl who will be my Queen!”
“
Dear Lord, so
you weren’t exaggerating.” Rory stared after the state carriage goggle-eyed. “The Prince of Wales really is a personal friend of yours!”
“Of all of us,” Marigold said smugly as a carriage carrying Princess Louise, King George’s sister, clattered down the street below their window.
“Maybe.” There was amusement in Rory’s voice. “But it was Lily’s name he shouted. I was watching his mouth and I would swear to it. I’m also certain that it was Lily he was waving to.”
Rose laughed. “I don’t think so, Rory. David is far too well mannered. When he waved, it was to all of us.”
Rory quirked an eyebrow at Lily, who had the grace to blush.
Iris said anxiously, “You must remember your promise, Rory. Not a word to anyone about David’s visits to Snowberry. Absolutely no one, other than the five of us and Grandfather, must know about them.”
“We weren’t even going to tell you,” Marigold said, eyeing one of David’s German cousins with an appraising eye as he rode beneath their window, so close that despite his distinctive spiked helmet, she could even see the intriguing cleft in his chin. “But we knew you’d be visiting Snowberry and that not telling you could cause problems—and then there’s the fact that there is already a close and intimate bond between you and David.”
Iris and Lily stared at her blankly.
Rose said, mildly annoyed, “Don’t be silly, Marigold.”
Rory, well knowing Marigold’s outrageous sense of humor, grinned. “Which is?” he asked.
“Your bathing costume. David borrowed it the last time he was at Snowberry. I did suggest embroidering HRH on one of the legs, but Rose wouldn’t let me.”
Rory roared with laughter, Iris and Lily burst into giggles, and even Rose’s mouth tugged into a smile.
“So, Rose, what d’you think the chances are of Prince Edward visiting Snowberry over the next few days, when I’ll be there?” he asked.
“Not high. He won’t be able to slip away unnoticed when every crowned head of Europe is a guest at Buckingham Palace.”
“Also it’s his birthday tomorrow,” Lily said. “There is to be the hugest party for him. He’s never had a birthday party before at which so many relations will be guests. He says that if every one of them brings him a present, it will be like all the Christmases he’s ever had rolled into one.”
A frown puckered Rose’s forehead. David hadn’t mentioned his birthday when he’d been with them at Snowberry, and it suddenly occurred to her to wonder if Lily and David were writing to each other.
It wasn’t something she’d any intention of asking in front of Marigold, Iris, and Rory, in case the answer was yes. She would ask Lily the next time they were on their own, though. If the answer
was
yes, quite what she would do she didn’t know. She couldn’t very well tell the heir to the throne that she’d prefer it if he didn’t write to her sister. All the same, his doing so would indicate that an especially close relationship was growing between him and Lily. A relationship that would cause ructions of seismic proportions if the palace became aware of it.