Midnight in Westminster Abbey

by Sean Dennis Cashman

  Ginny was struck by pronounced similarities in the faces of the Plantagenet kings: drooping eyes, baleful glances and long noses—some longer than others. But then, the similarities began to make Ginny uneasy. Her dad used to comment caustically about this or that Hollywood actor getting an academy award for a role when her dad thought it was really the actor’s makeup that had done the acting. To Ginny, there was something artificial about the look of these kings in Westminster Abbey all the way from Henry III to Edward VI. Were these fleeting spirits conjured up in the same image? Or were these various actors playing similar parts? Or was it one actor multiplied by CGI and in slightly different make-ups? And were the queens no more than shards of glass prettily reconfigured into gleaming costumes and topped by expressionless Venetian masks?

  Were these transient apparitions in Westminster Abbey ghosts? More troubling, were Ginny and her brother—as James I and VI had told her—simply phantoms in someone else’s dream? Were these royal spirits a real phantom menace? What did they want? Ginny was sure they wanted something from her and Georgie. What Ginny saw was entertainment with implied vengeance. Ginny did not dare tell Georgie her fears. He was half her age. To frighten him would simply add to their problems of escape.

  In the centre at the front of the choir stalls just before the varied royal congregation was the ceremonial chair of Edward the Confessor aka St Edward’s Chair—the chair where Ginny and Georgie had come across Henry III asleep. Now Henry III stood on tiptoe before it, holding his arm aloft.

  “It’s been used at every coronation since 1308,” he said confidentially. “Ready?” he asked the multitude of monarchs around him.

  “Ready,” answered his son, Edward I, as he petted his own heraldic animal to make sure it would stand to attention. As far as Ginny and Georgie could make out, this creature was a cross between a lion and a dragon. It was remarkably passive.

  “Ready,” chorused the successor kings and queens.

  Thus began three processions each accompanying what to Ginny looked like floats in Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in New York.

  The first procession surrounded the float carrying Henry VII and his wife, Elizabeth of York, down the central aisle. When these first Tudors arrived, it was like a Holly-wooden pageant. Henry VII rose out of an immense red rose. Its red petals formed crimson trimming on a lengthy royal train such as might take several pageboys to carry if Henry were on foot. On the same float, Elizabeth of York sat in the midst of an enormous white rose whose petals formed an elaborate border as you might find on a lady’s court gown. The first Tudor king and queen waved to one another so that Henry and Elizabeth could show off their large wedding rings to the admiring crowd.

  The second procession accompanied the float carrying their granddaughter, Elizabeth I, down the south aisle. She was carried on a litter raised high in the air, borne by heraldic animals, and with a canopy and backdrop of gauze. The slight distance of height she put between herself and the congregation enhanced the sense of mystery around her and underlined her self-presentation as the Virgin Queen. Elizabeth was wearing another new costume. Most striking were her ostentatious pearls.

  “They’re meant to represent chastity,” said Mary, Queen of Scots, who was standing in the crowd, a sullen figure. Since she had never been queen of England, Mary could take no part in procession or ceremony and had to remain a resentful outsider limited to sniping from the side lines.

  “Lizzie’s dressed as a vestal virgin of Ancient Rome and carrying a sieve. It’s supposed to be full of water, a symbol of purity and clarity. She’s taking it from the River Tiber to the Temple of Vesta. Is this at all convincing?”

  Georgie knew Mary, Queen of Scots, wanted him to answer, “No.” But, young as he was, he knew better than to make choices among queens. Elizabeth had indeed acquired an aura of sanctity as if she were the Virgin Mary—like a holier-than-thou statue in a holy place.

  The third procession accompanied Henry V down the north aisle. He began walking simply and unostentatiously by himself. From the commotion that rose spontaneously, it was crystal clear that Henry V was the crowd’s favourite. Some of the animals and other heraldic symbols rushed to hoist Henry onto their shoulders. Up went a general shout, “God for Harry! England! and St George!”

  One of Henry’s supporters had the nerve to push a beefy arm between Henry’s legs with his hand. In reply, the congregation called out, "Henricus, rex Angliae et haeres Francie: Henry, king of England and heir of France."

  Once again, Ginny heard the spoilsport gnat voice of Richard II in her inner ear.

  "Ironic, isn’t it? People living at the time and later judged the two best kings of the late medieval period—Edward III and Henry V—not on the basis of how well they ran England but how fearfully they ruined France.

  “It was the damnable Shakespeare in his histories who showed that it was those kings who combined cunning and wit with stamina and insatiable ambition—they were the ones that could seize and hold onto the English crown. Of course, they had to conjure up a show of legitimacy. But even their foibles and weaknesses added to the royal lustre.”

  Although they were indoors, a benign breeze caught the flags and banners and allowed them to breathe and flutter as if this were a happy-go-lucky medieval procession on a rare, perfect, summer day outside. The vaulted ceilings of Westminster Abbey were mysteriously lit up like a celestial summer sky of azure blue.

  In short, it was not merely good but perfect heaven to come alive again. And the rulers past wanted everyone to know it. Because they were mainly kings and queens alive-alive-oh for a night, they did not give a whit for the future. Their heraldic animals tripped gaily along in an infectious outburst of freedom after another dark year of mourning. Everyone and everything that moved cried, “God save the kings!”

  As the three processions met before the chancel, ceremonial music purred in the background. The kings formed a circle around Henry III as he stood to attention in front of the ceremonial chair. When everyone was in pole position, Henry III adjusted his crown. It was simple: a plain little circle fit for a lady’s wimple. That was indeed what it had been originally. When Henry III had been first crowned in Gloucester Cathedral as a boy, his mother’s gold headband was the only regalia king and clergy had to show. This was because Henry’s wily, improvident father, King John, had recently lost the crown jewels in the Wash (on the eastern shore of England). King John had died conveniently shortly afterwards.

  But, on this magic night in Westminster Abbey, Henry III now tossed his simple crown to his son. As it spun in the air, Edward I gazed upon it with an obvious mix of desire and dread. As it spun, the crown itself changed and acquired some rubies to become the more elaborate crown of Edward I.

  The children were aware of music building up to a climax of pealing bells. All this time, the kings and queens kept moving with graceful steps in something like a courtly pavane while their animal familiars kept pace by gliding above the ground.

  For a moment, Edward I stood transfixed. But he did not hog the royal limelight. He tossed the crown to the next king. This time when the crown went spinning, it spun around twice. More helpfully this time, Mary, Queen of Scots, told the youngsters, “He doesn’t pass it to his son who was forced to abdicate and was killed. Edward II is not in Westminster Abbey. He’s in Gloucester Cathedral.”

  “Why?” asked Georgie.

  “Because he was another embarrassment.”

  Just then, Edward III caught the crown.

  To her later regret, Ginny did not notice at the time that Edward III’s famous wife, Philippa of Hainault, was not among the other queen consorts. Edward III looked hard at them as a sign for them to be silent. Then, softening his expression just before he tossed the crown to the next king, he tossed a jewelled garter to Ginny whom he still saw as an enticing little girl. Then he winked at her.

  “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” he lisped with an engaging smile. “I keep a little stock of garters in reserve—something
for the weekend,” he added with another wink, this time so exaggerated it was like a needle pulling thread. Then Edward said saucily, “You enjoy being a girl. I enjoy being a king.” He added, “I’m in my prime. This is one of the perks.” Swinging a spare garter around his index finger, he concluded, “And for good measure the noble order of the garter became an institution. So it’s all above board.”

  Ginny was not so sure.

  When Edward III tossed the crown to his successor, Richard II, it spun only once.

  “I think there’s an inner rule here,” Ginny explained to Georgie. “If the crown goes to the next king it spins just once. But if the next king is not here—missing—it spins twice to acknowledge the fact.”

  Richard II was in his full majesty of blue and gold splendour as in the Wilton diptych. He would not have had the nerve to summon up the attendant saints around him in that portrait. Instead, he had assembled a little flotilla of guardian paper angels held aloft on soldiers’ pikes. Ginny heard one of the petite angels sing a blessing, “Peace on earth,” to which another angel said tartly, “You’ll learn.”

  When Richard II caught the crown from his grandfather, he showed it off affectionately to his familiar white hart beside him. After he kissed the crown, Richard II cast a baleful look behind him. Before he tossed it reluctantly to the next king, he looked disdainfully at the next animal, Henry V’s proud white swan. Richard’s look mixed surprise, distress and condescension before he tossed the crown. It spun around twice. The youngsters looked at Mary Tudor for her explanation.

  “Ginny is right. It spins twice because the crown was taken from Richard II by his cousin who became Henry IV, who’s not here. And Henry IV bequeathed it to his eldest son, Henry V, who is.”

  Henry V was jolted by the crown spinning twice. He did not like Richard’s reluctance but, pro that he was, he hid his resentment. After all, this was a public performance. He determined that his future private motto—and one for all his successors—must be, “Never complain; never explain. Damn right.”

  All this time, the background music had been swelling majestically. Since the crown had acquired all sorts of decoration, it was beginning to look majestic in keeping with the royal fanfare. At the music’s first climax, Henry V set the crown audaciously on his helmet saying, “Polished perturbation, golden care.” But he said this complacently as if he was fully entitled not simply to wear the crown but also to enjoy it uninterrupted. And as he pressed it down more firmly on the helmet, the music roared to its second climax. Now Ginny recognised the tune. She had heard it on CD in a music appreciation class in high school.

  “Zadok the priest,” sang out an immense unseen choir.

  While Henry V was enjoying his prolonged moment of glory, Ginny, showing off her knowledge, told Georgie, “It’s the most famous of several anthems that Georg Frideric Handel composed for the coronation of George II. It celebrates the biblical story of how Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet anointed Solomon king.”

  Turning to the congregation Henry V proclaimed, “This is a day for rejoicing and laughter. There will be no, ‘I know thee not, old man, fall to thy prayers’, to any subjects, great or grotesque.”

  “Party time, party time,” giggled Elizabeth I from behind.

  As the unseen offstage choir continued with the cry of the Israelites, “God save the king,” Henry V at last let go of the crown. This time it spun four times to acknowledge the next four kings who were not present. Then Henry VII, patriarch of the Tudor dynasty, caught the crown.

  Ever one to promote and justify her royal authority, Mary Tudor said, “Henry VII won the crown in battle with the death of Richard III. Henry is our grandfather. Legend says he plucked it from a thorn bush after the battle of Bosworth.”

  As she said this, Henry VII cradled the crown as if it were the cherished trophy of some Olympic contest. And, as if on cue, he also started picking what looked like real leaves and thorns from it, humming as he did so.

  The other Tudor sovereigns were ready, making final touches to their outfits without the help of attendant animals. Instead, there descended from on high roses lowered on green spikes. Each thorny stave culminated in a special rose with outer petals of virgin white and inner petals of carnal crimson.

  Again, Richard II was in Ginny’s inner ear to tell her what to think.

  “Thus is born the famous Tudor rose. Henry VII and his ministers had wanted a rose that united the red rose of the house of Lancaster and the white rose of the house of York. This rose, red on the outside and white at the core, was meant to symbolise a new union of the two rival factions and an end to decades of conflict between competing branches of the royal line.”

  Ginny noticed that the crown now looked more splendid than ever. It was heavier and more gem-encrusted and it had also acquired a plush velvet inner cap. The youngsters waited for the next tossing of the crown. Ginny told Georgie, “Henry VII’s son, Henry VIII, lies in Windsor. Henry VII will pass the crown to his grandson, Edward VI.”

  And indeed he did. The boy king Edward VI looked pale and sickly as if he was caught between wanting to seize power and rule as king and afraid of the responsibility just as he was poised between a sickly life and a premature death.

  As Mary Tudor took her place in readiness to catch the crown after Edward VI, the children’s eyes moved to her younger half-sister Elizabeth, waiting patiently enough, her shards of bone refashioned from her Vesta raiment into the same simple red gown she wore in her coronation portrait. Fascinated, the children’s eyes stayed on her and so they missed Mary Tudor’s fleeting moment of glory.

  Sensing that they were fixated on her, Elizabeth herself suddenly blushed as her skeletal frame caught rays of light. Her auburn hair shone as lustrously just as when she had been a merry twenty-five-year-old and had just succeeded to the throne.

  The long ceremony was wearying Georgie. He left to investigate other parts of Westminster Abbey. In the middle of the cloisters, he found a small garden with scrubby grass and cultivated white roses. The three small boy gardeners who had trundled the wheelbarrow with its stones and pebbles for James I and VI were now kneeling beside one particular rose bush. They were painting the inner petals white.

  “We have to do this,” said the oldest boy, an angelic youth with fair hair and delicate but firm features. “My brothers and I,” he added, indicating the other two cheerful children, a little younger than him and just as adorable looking. “We have to do this. It’s on orders from the new king, Henry VII, and his regiment of grandchildren. Sometimes we get the wrong colour on the outer petals and there’s merry hell to pay.”

  He cast his eyes down in case the Misses Tudors might catch him skiving off.

  “His granddaughters are holy terrors.”

  The boy put a charming finger up to his pretty lips as if to signify that silence was just as golden in the Renaissance as it was in any period that came later. Georgie guessed that hard knocks had made the child gardeners stoical. That must have been their only path through the briar patch of an arduous life with backbreaking toil and grief from mistresses as harsh as any wicked stepmother ready to exploit free labour.

  He noticed that among these angelic looking Angles stood one slightly taller and equally handsome youngster who was of mixed race. He reminded Georgie of his sister, Ginny. The older fair-haired gardener saw Georgie looking at this handsome youth and said, “He’s Elizabeth I’s favourite. She’s keeping him in reserve for some special purpose. We don’t know what.”

  In the main abbey in the coronation ceremony, and at the height of her splendour, Elizabeth I could afford to relax and enjoy her progress. As she glided onwards, she raised her petite hands to welcome affectionate fauna: ermine that caressed her puffed sleeves, gay bluebirds and robin redbreasts that nibbled playfully on her outstretched palms and all manner of humming insects that buzzed ecstatically around her perfumed bodice. Gloriana felt as high as any bird in the adoration spectacle supporting her. To the side Mary
Tudor sulked like a heretic possessed, muttering, “She thinks she’s a Technicolor princess who’s still snow white but she’s drifted.”

  ****

  Still outside the abbey, Charlie Chancer felt alone as never before, despite the presence of the awesome but friendly horse. Then he felt his stomach turning. It was like the whining he had felt within when his first wife was carrying Ginny. Some wisecracking guy in the office had told him about a rare medical condition among fathers-to-be experiencing some of the same side effects of pregnancy as their wives. For no reason Charlie could think of, he seemed to be having extraordinary stomach turbulence. There was no logical explanation for this despite his understandable apprehension about getting back into Westminster Abbey. His concern for his kids was tremendous. It was almost as if his stomach were rippling. It was different from an uneasy feeling in the gut that you might have going into work and expecting some difficult row with a megalomaniac boss. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the uncomfortable reeling stopped so that Charlie could stop quivering and concentrate on being ready to get back inside Westminster Abbey when the mighty horse gave its silent signal.

  ****

  On the chancel of the abbey, Ginny sensed that as the ceremony threatened to go on and on into infinity, the phantom kings and queens were, like her, also getting tired either in spite of their immortal status or because of it. Just as they had done in their medieval or early modern lives, they had delectable titbits hidden in cuffs or secret pockets.

  Ginny saw Elizabeth I, now down from her perch, fairly tearing apart a succulent orange and spitting out the pits most indecorously from her stained teeth.

  Henry V was nibbling on a half breast of roasted swan, somewhat charred while his attendant symbol swan looked on with severe disapproval. It was only the symbol swan’s sense of decorum and its sense of its own importance that stopped it from giving the king a good thwack with its angry wings. It restricted itself to a restrained cawing noise somewhere between a cackle and a catcall.