[D1, LA] The Coronation of Richard Lionheart

[Cearnach]

The marble and stone nave is a vast space of columns and void, dominated by the stone and statuary of the screen that separates this space from the sacred space reserved for church officials and high nobility, and in which the sacred rites for which all are assembled will take place. Those relegated to standing here, the knights and commons of the realm, will get but three brief glimpses of that glittering multitude: once during the procession into the abbey, once during the recession out of it, and once, slightly longer, during the celebration of the Eucharist, when they will draw near to and receive the divine presence.

For now, however, you are left to stand and listen as best you can to the holy song and murmurings from within.

[Giles de Braose]

Giles had performed the required acts of obeisance as the Royal procession entered Westminster, passing by all the less than important folks, of which he was included. While he was confident that all eyes would be on the soon to be crowned King Richard himself and the rest of his party, he still made sure to observe all the forms and functions of the brief ritual, for it would be inauspicious to offend a King on the day of his coronation...and also a little suicidal.

As the chanting within got underway, his lips moved, following along the words that if he couldn't hear in his ears, he knew in his mind and heart. In his hands were a parchment and quill, scratching away as he tried to document what he could, capturing moments of significance in ink and vellum, relying on his memory to fill in the other blanks later. Someone would likely try to capture this event for posterity, it may as well be him.

[Henry Piast]

Henry was in deep prayer; in such stance the world arrived at his senses with a blur, and while he went through the customary motions of showing respect to the royal procession, it was with the slightest of delays. In a way, he was awed more by the godly space itself than by their ornate presence of any people within.

[Andre l'Ecrivain]

Andre had arrived early and found a perch that accommodated his bulk, let him see what was happening, and gave him a stable surface on which to write, detailing all he could see--and, given where he sat, he could see a fair bit, including another writer at work.

Well, he thinks, I shall have to find this man and compare notes.

[Prince John]

[[Players not currently in a Coronation thread may, of course, join one. I just want to get the ball rolling because there are many, many coronation posts.]]

The gentle rumble of murmuring nobility and clergy is drowned out by a burst of cheering from just outside the abbey. The King's procession has arrived!

The great doors of the abbey burst open with a thunderous 'thunk' as wood meets the stone of the great lintel. A pair of heralds stride into the abbey nave, their finery and nobility of bearing causing the crowd to squeeze back to the left and right, leaving a path for the monarch who is surely coming...

But wait, this is surely not the red-headed giant of Aquitaine! No, rather these are two people: One, known to almost everyone here, a reedy man of middling height, sandy-haired and bedecked with a rich cape and coronet trimmed with the great white plumes of ostriches, the whole thing crowned by a sneer. Yes, it is Prince John, the "Lord of Ireland," and toddling at his side, golden crown of hair concealed beneath an oversized crimson cap, his chubby little arm strained upwards to hold onto his uncle's hand and worriedly clenching his other be-ringed fist tightly, lest his mischievous thumb sneak past the dam of his lips, is two-year-old Arthur of Brittany.





These are the Princes of the Blood, the pride of England and of France, and Richard's foremost retainers. They past slowly down the aisle, Arthur's uneasy steps dictating the pace, to take their seats at the south edge of the field of gold just glimpseable through the door in the great screen.

As they move into the sanctuary, you hear the monks beginning to sing:

Laetatus sum in his quae dicta sunt mihi:
in domum domini ibimus

Stantes erant pedes mihi in atriis tuis, Ierusalem.

Ierusalem quae aedificatur ut civitas,
cuius participatio eius in idipsum

Illuc enim ascenderunt tribus,
tribus Domini, testimonium Israel,
ad confitendum nomini Domini.

Quia illic sederunt sedes in iudicio,
sedes super domum David.

Rogate quae ad pacem sunt Ierusalem,
et abundantia in turribus tuis.

Propter fraters meos et proximos meos,
loquebar pacem de te.

Propter domum Domini Dei nostri,
Quaesivi bona tibi.

[Cearnach]

As the chant begins to fill the abbey, the first of the clergymen enters the chamber. Short, greying, portly, and in simple black robes with a white stola hanging from his shoulders, Walter of Winchester, the Abbot of Westminster, official lord of the town as well as master of the abbey and all its monks, proceeds through the nave toward the high altar, bearing a mace almost the height of a man made of wood and bearing at the end of its shaft the royal seal.

The soft scrape of his sandals on the marble flooring contrasts with the heavy thump of the shoes of the nine chaplains that follow, the personal chaplains of Richard and of Queen Eleanor, each a man of great learning and piety in his own right, though some of Richard's chaplains do seem quite young for the role.

[Cearnach]

The royal chaplains are followed by the shadow of the cross, for the gilded cross of the abbey, held aloft by the prior, a thin, severe-looking man in the black of the Benedictine order, is backlit by the rays of the sun through the abbey door. His eyes remained trained on the cross he bears, though through some particular talent he manages to avoid overrunning the chaplains in his solemn progress. Following him are a small troop of monks with robes of Benedictine black and Carthusian white, their heads bowed and their sandals scraping rhythmically.

[Cearnach]

Then there is a spray of color as further heralds, clad in silks brought back from Outremer by Robert Curthose's men, stride into the abbey. Their presence punctuating the honor of these Monks of the Rule from the coming Crusaders. While also in black and white, the Crusaders strike an altogether more worldly form of worship. No vows of poverty for them, the rich white of the tabard and greatcloak Geoffroy fitzStephen, Master of the Templars in England, is surmounted by a great cross of brilliant scarlet. At his left Garnier de Nablus, Commander of Clerkenwell and a native of the Holy Land, strides swathed in darkest black, broken by a white cross that stretches from shoulder to shoulder and down his mighty chest.

There is a feeling of unease that seems to rise from the gathered throng of fighting men in the nave, as each man takes the measure of these brothers, both of whom have been where many here assembled will soon be going. They survived hard years in Outremer. Will you?

[Andre l'Ecrivain]

Andre continues scribbling notes, pausing only to cross himself at appropriate points in the procession, detailing all he can.

[Cearnach]

Another trio of heralds steps through the wide doorway, this time followed by Lord Geoffrey, Baron Marmion of Llanstephan, the King's Champion. He is holding Richard's Standard, the three golden lions stretching their warding paws eastward, toward the altar and the Holy City, their azure tongues lolling out to taste conquest.

[Cearnach]

The sure and steady tramp of the Champion is nearly matched by the weighty steps of the three men that follow him. Three officers of the king's household, bearing white wands of their office, doing their best to appear as important as the display sets them out to be. These minor lordlings keep their eyes focused on the looming altar, and their place to its right, studiously avoiding the glances of their near-peers in the nave.

[Cearnach]

Next comes a priest, though his richly embroidered vestments are largely upstaged by the wide cushion he bears, supported by a great strap across his shoulders. This is Richard fitzNeale, the Lord High Treasurer, and a man of tremendous influence, but hardly a man takes note of his face or bothers to take his measure, for resting on that cushion are treasures beyond price. A ring of gold set with a fiery red stone; two armills of solid gold, the bracelets etched with scenes, though assessing their detail as they move past is beyond those called to witness them; and a sword, its hilt and scabbard gilded in silver etchings that seem to dance in the light and shadow.

[Cearnach]

The next figures to enter the abbey are a strange group. The tallest of the three is a man instantly recognizable to the people of England. Ranulf de Glanville, Lord High Chancellor of the realm, the Hero of Alnwick, Shield of the North, Codifier of the Laws, and, until recently, the Queen's jailer. No sign of fear or trepidation at Angevin vengeance clouds his brow. Rather, fierce intelligence burns in bright brown eyes underneath salt-and-pepper hair. Next to him comes another clergyman, this time the Bishop of Lincoln, Geoffrey, another bastard son of Henry Curtmantle. He is bedecked with liturgical vestments and in his miter and with crozier in hand. Of course, he also bears on a great cushion the Great Seal of England.



Behind them, a younger man struggles with an awkwardly heavy sack bearing the Royal Seal and clinking with coin. To his right, a page boy looks around with wide-eyed wonder at the majesty of the abbey and of its current occupants.

[Baldwin of Forde]

The next vision to grace the doors of the cathedral is that of a fair-haired priest holding aloft the great cross of Canterbury, signalling the arrival of Baldwin of Forde, the Archbishop. It is difficult to imagine this man of middling height and unprepossessing bearing brow-beating the lords of Wales into taking the cross, but it seems there is a fire in this prelate that even his long-running feud with his own canons has done little to quench. He seems at ease, a propitious sign in the man to officiate at this most sacred of rites. With each step forward punctuated by the thud of his heavy crosier against the marble floor, he raises his right hand in blessing to each side of the room before passing on his way.

[Cearnach]

Then there is a great sound of trumpets drowning out the dreamy chanting of the monks as three heralds step through the door. serving as a visual pause, despite the beauty of their clothing, after the powerful sights of Treasurer, Chancellor, and Archbishop.

[Cearnach]

Just as the tension becomes unbearable, the heralds move forward in procession and the door is filled with two more figures. They move like warriors in their fine clothing, though you cannot recall meeting them before. Perhaps they are Occitan or Poitevin knights, having accompanied their Duke from France. In any case, they are much less important than what they bear, a great scepter surmounted with a cross of gold in the hands of the man on the right, and in those of the man on the left a wooden staff nearly the height of a man covered in silver gilt.

[Cearnach]

Coming after them, Sir John Marshal, the elder brother of the more famous William, carries in his hands two spurs made of solid gold, symbols of knighthood borne by a well-respected knight.

[Giles de Braose]

Giles chanted under his breath alongside the monks as he watched the never ending parade of distinguished individuals and participating members of society.

It was a grand affair to be sure, and he was pleased that his brother had extended him an invitation, time would only tell why though. Will always had a plan.

[William the Lion]

Then, blocking the great doors with their broad shoulders, three knights appeared in full battle array.

The central figure was a frighteningly tall man with a massive iron-grey beard and a stern, furrowed brow. Bearing his sword upright and scabbardless, he represented the King's power to exact justice by delivering death to evildoers. The fact that he was also the KIng of Scotland said something more for Richard's power.

[Hamelin de Warenne]

To Scotland's left, another man in late middle age. This man is no giant like his neighbor, but he carries with him a sense of fluid movement and personal grace that give the lie to his rough features and thick beard. His sword is in a golden scabbard, and is slightly smaller than that of the third man, perhaps in deference to this man's slighter frame. Still, as a representative of the King's force, he cut a striking figure.

[Robert Whitehands]

The third man, looking in many ways the balance of Scotland and Warenne, is the Earl of Leicester, Robert de Beaumont. The famed 'Whitehands' looks a somewhat unassuming figure even in his battle array, golden-sheathed sword held aloft. In his round face, edged with salt-and-pepper hair and medium length beard are alert, piercing brown eyes. His strong frame is athletic rather than bulky, as befits a man long imprisoned by a previous king. It is perhaps easy to see that this man does not recant his loyalties - nor his grudges. He strides easily alongside the others, the weight of his great sword made lighter by proximity to the age of a new king, who knows and values his loyalty.

[Andre l'Ecrivain]

The scribbling continues in detail, of course.

[Cearnach]

The foremost men and ladies in the crowd shrink back as they stride manfully into the nave holding three swords in gold-gilt scabbards upright in their mailed hands. Though their countenances are not stern, the shock of this display of the king's power to wage war is enough to cause one young daughter of the House of Peverell to faint into her younger brother's arms.


Close on the heels of these knights is the greatest commoner in the realm, the Lord Mayor of London, his neck bowed by the great chain of his office. He is a proud man, judging by his posture and the way he gazes levelly forward, each step assured and formal. He almost looks as though he belongs among the ennobled, but of course birth dictates much, and it is widely known that his father was a glover.

[Aubrey de Vere]

The next to arrive is an ancient man, grown almost spindly as time has drained the vigor from his limbs. Strong of jaw, tall, and severe, his full height cannot be adjudged, for a stoop has begun to manifest in the broad shoulders, weigh down as they are by the enormous mace of office he bears over his left shoulder. His sharp eyes are fixed firmly ahead, as is proper, though the wrinkles about his lips show signs of an almost perpetual scowl.
This can be none other than Aubrey de Vere, 1st Earl of Oxford, Lord High Chancellor, last survivor of the second generation of Normans to rule over England, and solid contender for England's meanest man.

[Cearnach]

The Earl of Oxford is followed by a living legend. The Earl Marshal, whose feats of arms have won him a place in song time and again, strides forward. Starting to show gray in his hair at 53, he is tall, but no giant as the songs have suggested. But he is clearly still mighty, as he carries before him, point upward, an enormous two-handed sword with perfect control. He looks neither left nor right, and does not seem at all cowed by the noise, the closeness of the throng of nobility, nor the smell of incense that has begun to drift in from beyond the great screen. He strides with sureness of purpose across the nave and down the quire, crossing the golden field to take his place near the king's seat.

[William de Mandeville]

A respectful distance behind the Lord Chancellor comes a magnificent sight, and though the man bearing the wide cushion is important, almost no one takes in the noble face of the famous Earl of Essex. For resting on that cushion is the object all have been waiting to see--the crown itself. That majestic thing by which a man (in the popular imagination) becomes transformed from mere mortal to the instrument of God's will on this earth. The power bound up in its gold and rough gemstones transcends by far its priceless material value.

[Earl William of Salisbury]

And beside the Earl of Essex comes the Earl of Salisbury, a youngish man dwarfed by the fame of the man beside. He bears a scepter of gold topped with a soaring dove, also in gold. His hands seem to shake slightly with the weight of it.



Just behind them comes still another clergyman, this one in the white alb surmounted by black tabard that marks him as a member of the Cistercian Order. He holds above his head a massive book that could only be the Bible.

[King Richard Lionheart]

Through the doorway, the assembled nobles hear the cheering of the crowd erupting a second time in ecstasy. The great moment has surely come! For, blocking the light that once streamed through the great door of the abbey is a true Giant. Well over six feet in height, the King stands head and shoulders above all the other men in the abbey, save perhaps William the Lion, King of Scotland. It seems that there is a grace touching upon the blood of true kings, for this red-bearded mountain fairly brims with strength and barely-contained violence. His red mane and ferocious, terrible glance call to mind stories of tawny-skinned cats of tremendous size and lordly bearing, who stalk deer with impunity in farthest Outremer and in the dunes of Saracen Aegypt. In the cloying incense you can almost smell what it must be like, this place of destiny, this Kingdom of Heaven where this Lion will lead the men of green, sodden old England. As he strides through the screen into the quire, his rich clothing and scarlet train swirling around him like a thunderclap, there is an audible gasp, and then the shouting of youthful voices as the boys of Westminster School spontaneously erupt from their seats in the quire:

""VIVAT!! VIVAT REX!!!"

For a moment, all is tumult and awe, and away outside the abbey an answering shout is torn from the lungs of the common men and women of England as a sublime gust of wind moves the abbeys great bell to shout its own acclamation in a thunderous, brazen toll.

[Baldwin of Forde]

A short time after Richard has disappeared through the screen into the main body of the church, and the singing of the processional has ended, you hear shouts of "God Save King Richard!" coming from many throats.

But every shift of weight here in the vast nave, every breath has become a riot of sound, interposing itself between you and the finer details of the sacred rite that you know has begun inside. Then, you hear the raised voice of the Archbishop.

"I here present...you....Richard...dow...King, where....come...day...do...hom... Are...will...same?"

and the voices of the monks and boys of Westminster Abbey and its School, much nearer to the screen, shout "God Save King Richard!" This much, you can hear very clearly.

[Cearnach]

There is a sound like pieces of leather being thrown about in a windstorm, and then a nasty-looking, flappy, evil-smelling creature soars over the screen and out the door of the Abbey.

Holy shit, was that a bat?