The area in front of the Lady Chapel is filled with orderly rows of oaken seats set out for the noble barons and Earls of the realm not taking part in the ceremony itself. Just before the golden rugs that mark the central theater of the coronation, two seats, destined to house the Princes of the Blood, sit empty. Across the central portion of the cross are seated the rows of noblewomen, to the left columns of black-robed monks fill the choir, while to the right in the main apse the high altar waits, swathed in gold, for the rites to begin.

Conversation is socially permissible both before and after the ceremony.

Waleran de Beaumont, Earl of Warwick, having arrived in Westminster alongside his cousin in the vast train that constituted the Beaumont entourage, has long ago found his seat near the front of the gathered nobles. He is a man of 36, average in height, and has none of the aura of terror that some of the other earls carry about them. In fact, he seems downright approachable. Friendly, even.

Two rows back from Waleran, two teenagers in the fine robes of Earls are in close conversation.

The older of the two is by far the broader; of taller of average height, but stocky and hard-featured, with a full head of red hair.

The younger, perhaps 15, is stunningly handsome, with dark hair and gleaming blue eyes. His features are fine, and there is a lightness about him accentuated by the fashionable blue sash he has deployed to cinch his robes in tight about his narrow waist.

Just now entering the church is another Earl, middle aged, with thinning dark hair. Broad of shoulder and of obviously prodigious strength, there is a force even to the way he genuflects in the direction of the tabernacle. He nods to Waleran, seems pleased at the return nod, and sits down just behind the seat reserved for Prince John with an audible thud.

Once seated, he immediately bows his head in prayer.

Of the currently seated barons, Simon, baron of Montfort-l’Amaury joins their number. Dressed in the finest robes he owns (which in this case are a deep dark red), his nerves and awe are obvious for all to see.

He finds his seat, sliding into it with the silence of the willows and trepidation of the lamb, and bows his head in deep prayer.

As the procession passes the seats in the south transept, its leader peels off and takes the seat appointed for him.

John is not a tall man, but he is solid-looking, if a bit slimy. He takes off his ostrich-feather crown and stows it beneath his seat for the moment, scanning the procession as it goes by with an air of advanced boredom.

With his guide peeling off the procession, little Arthur is momentarily confused, but is given a gentle nudge by one of the heralds to take his seat next to John.

The small boy climbs onto the seat, standing upright in it to see as much as possible. It is only when John gives him a glare that he remembers to take off his scarlet cap, but he still stands there, twisting it in his tiny hands.

Llwelyn is hardly the most distinguished of those here to sw are fealty, but he is a first son, and more importantly the current lord of his his holdings, meager as they are. Patience and grace is required here.

The monarch proceeds slowly but inexorably up the quire. Crossing the transept to the right of the great chair appointed for him at the abbey's center, he passes near to his brother, but his only smile, indeed his only gesture to a fellow man in this moment of tremendous import, is a fond smile at his little nephew, for Arthur was standing in his seat scarlet clap clenched in tiny fists, craning his neck to see his uncle, the source of all this strange commotion. The boy seems to calm in the king's presence, resuming his seat slowly, majestically, beside snubbed Prince John, even as Richard passes by.

The party advances, led by the Archbishop, down from the altar to stand before the seats of John and Arthur, looking down at the seated lords of the realm. Clearing his throat, the Archbishop calls out again:

"I here present unto you King Richard, your undoubted King, wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service. Are you willing to do the same?"

The first voice raised in acclimation is that of Richard de Redvers, the youngest of the Earls--and possibly the youngest landed nobleman in attendance, excepting Prince Arthur.

"God Save King Richard!"

Shortly after comes the bright tenor of the Earl of Chester and of Richmond, his 19 years never having given him any sign that he would partake in a ritual quite this magnificent.

"God Save King Richard!"

"God save king Richard!"

Poor Simon covers his mouth after his proclamation, realizing he had accidentally shouted the words with too much fervor, perhaps.

"God save King Richard!"

The red headed Frenchman, offered the cheer at the right moment and with the right amount of fervor. He had quite studied this ceremony to be certain he was not embarrassing his mother's family.

Anymore than he does at other times.

He watches his cousin, Richard with appreciation.