Touched by Majesty

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty

(Composed upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth)

Outside the carriage window, crowds as deep as seas wave flags. Children are hoisted onto shoulders to catch a glimpse of the historic moment; countless phones like periscopes, angled in the hope of capturing the newly crowned monarch. He has waited so very long for this moment; now it has come to pass, the noise of his subjects crashes on his ears like surf pounds the shore. Relentlessly the applause rises and rises, a tide that seems like it will never fall back; never abate. He can't help but think, what a hullabaloo, as the gold carriage rolls ever onwards, processing from the abbey back to his home, the palace.   

Yes, today is a momentous day, not just for those on the streets of London, but also for the millions of spectators in all four corners of the globe, poring over the footage on various screens. He wouldn’t be surprised if in an outer reach of some other galaxy, a green-headed alien was swiping a tentacle across some space gadget, zooming in to better peruse how royalty do things on this small planet- Earth. 

He glances up, half hopeful that he might glimpse a curious face in the sky, rather than the drones hovering like petulant bluebottles, a media swarm he has never been able to swish away; and as he does so, he catches sight of Westminster Bridge stretching before him as the carriage begins to turn. Overhead, a familiar rather than a foreign face greets him: Big Ben. The clock tower’s round features are a comfort on this long–awaited yet bewildering day. Booming, sonorous, the bells call out with their mighty voice to the city’s dwellers high and low; to both prince and pauper. They peal out once, twice, and on the third summons of the bell, the carriage lurches to an unsightly and unscheduled halt. 

Unsettled, worrying about protests or worse, he clutches at the State Coach’s plush velvet seat, wondering if he should bolt the door, lie down or sit- calm and composed- for the guard to inform him what, your Majesty, is amiss. Tentatively, he peers out and sees London life on pause. Flags no longer flutter but are suspended mid-wave; a child is a statue, reaching up to his father, transfixed as he asks to be lifted for a better view; even the bells of Big Ben seem to have halted, mid clang, along with the royal steeds. By Jove, this is not part of the Processional Plan he agreed to weeks ago!

Then he sees, looming amongst strangers, a face he knows; from stamps, from bank notes, from newspaper pages and lastly, from the bathroom mirror every morning and night; a face whose creases and folds are deeply familiar, for it is his own. This figure is bereft of military dress, medals and ornaments; instead it is decked in leaves: a green man in the middle of the metropolis. For a moment he is transported out of this peacock pageant and is in Wellington boots, nearly knee-deep in the Duchy mud, out for a bracing walk having just tended to his tomato plants; and he smiles instinctively, for the first time that day. The green man smiles back at him, a ray of living warmth in this petrified scene, and he opens the carriage door and steps down. The crowd pays him no regard as he walks to this green-leafed version of himself, wondering how- while all else is still- the foliage all about him quivers with a force of its own. 

By the time he has reached the green man’s side, he notices that his leaves are drooping, a brown carpet of shrivelled ones littering the floor about his feet. He had planned to ask who he was: this mysterious me; this beloved stranger. On a day of the most spectacular offerings: orbs and oils; choirs of angels casting their voices to the very heavens, this is the most remarkable benefaction of all. But now that he stands before him, watching his green majesty fall, all he can ask is “what is happening to you, my dear fellow?”

The smile fades from the green face and the figure holds up his tendrilled arms, vines for veins, and he is reminded of noble oaks and evergreens, standing in the Highlands he also calls home. The green man ignores his question, asking instead, in a voice full with the sound of rustling leaves:

“What would you give to stop this happening?”

“Pray explain, to stop what?”

“The burning. The gasping. In lands where you and your own have prospered, nothing may remain but rising water, drowned spaces or wildfires. Do not be dull to the question which presents itself: what would you do to quench the flames; to stem the floods?”

His is a winnowing voice, sifting the chaff, lifting it clear, even as his beautiful leaves wilt and fall. What a cost is here, perhaps too much for even a monarch to bear. He lifts the imperial crown, already so heavy on his head, and presents it humbly to the green man. Staring deep into his moss-green and ancient eyes, he thinks this:

Take these large jewels and pluck them out to be our new eyes: ruby red, for the blood spilt; diamond clear, sparkling like the stars that see all. Do not shut these two new eyes and I will train mine too, upon this green planet, which I will endeavour to see does not turn blue with flood or red with fire. 

Without a word, with the barest inclination of his head, the green man takes this gift and places it upon his quivering foliage for hair; in return, he offers him one of his vibrant green leaves. The exchange complete, he returns to the carriage where it jolts to life once more.

Inside, he considers the single leaf as the crowd’s cheer lifts on the breeze again. It is surrounded by gilt, velvet, satin and gold but it is, nonetheless, the most beautiful thing on show today and he can hardly pull his gaze from it as the State Coach pulls into Trafalgar Square, making its way to the Mall. 

As usual Nelson stands atop his Victory column, perusing the city, looking proudly to the Admiralty and perhaps out to the place of his heroic fall. In his left hand he grasps a sword. Like the figure in the carriage who observes him, he too is decked in his military dress, decorated with military insignia. 

Unannounced, cannons fire three times and the carriage grinds to a halt once more. What in Jove’s name is going on? He can hardly believe his eyes as he notices that the stone lions, which forever guard the square, are still lying down but are shaking their stone manes, opening their jaws wide, and roaring. 

From behind one, a figure steps shakily forward, clutching his ears and looking like he expects the sky to fall. In shock, he recognises the face: he would call it his own, except this one is daubed in blood. Flinging open the door, he rushes out of the carriage, weaving through the crowds which are once more statues of elation, nothing more. 

“My dear chap, you’re hurt. Please take this.” He hands him a fancy linen handkerchief, embroidered with his monogram, and the bleeding man holds it to his wounded forehead, the cream cloth quickly stains to crimson.

“Is there anything else I can do for you? Perhaps my carriage can make a detour? A hospital must be nearby…” He trails off as the man’s uncanny eyes appraise him from underneath the bloodied rag. He waits for what seems a lifetime and then begins to speak.

“What can one man do to stem the tide of blood? I come from a place where war ravages the land; a brother’s blood anoints a brother’s hands. I ask you now: what would you do to avert this fate from befalling your dominions?” 

What can one man do? He looks to the statue of Nelson for- what? Inspiration? A lesson in stoical sacrifice? A symbol is what is needed; a token of goodwill and he reaches for one of the many medals pinned to his chest.

The bloodied man shakes his head sadly.  

“We need no tokens of military might.”

“Of course- how foolish of me. Here, these are more befitting your cause.” And he reaches for the triumvirate of swords, clasped to his side.

“Take them. Take all three! For with the Sword of Justice, the Sword of the Spirit and the Sword of Mercy, victory must be yours.” 

The wounded man shakes his head once more.

“Live by the sword, die by the sword. Now is the time to break these blades and extend only the hand of peace.”

His wounded self extends his hand and he, signet rings flashing on each finger, passes the blades to him. Solemnly he swallows each one, elegantly, like a heron tilting back its long beak, swallowing silver-scaled fish not sharpened swords.

Afterwards, he returns the crimson handkerchief before disappearing behind a lion, who lays its head on its paws and seems appeased. Shaking somewhat, he stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket and returns to the carriage. No sooner has he shut the door, then it lurches to life once more.

It is the final stretch of the Processional Parade. Along the grand sweep of the Mall, the State Coach rolls. Ahead, will be his home, or one of them, and all eyes will be following his progress to its doors, waiting to see him alight, vanish within, to emerge on the balcony for the first time as sovereign of, but also over, them all. 

He tries to focus on picturing himself in this historic moment; the one where he finally steps from the shadows. But it is as if a dark cloud has passed before the sun, casting his hoped for vision into shade. He cannot imagine himself, aloft, triumphant, waving, at all.

The coach bears him through St James’s Park, an idyll of tulips, fountains and children. His attention is snagged by the stooped figure of a woman, tending to her many children, oblivious to the pageant happening on the Mall. She is surrounded by a flock of them as one might be engulfed by pigeons, should one happen to bring a picnic or even a sandwich, to this green space. There is something in the way she tenderly strokes each little head, handing out food and pulling their meagre coats about them, that reminds him of himself, on excursions with his grandchildren, helping them into items of clothing; sharing food and laughing as the duck bills snap at the morsels they toss.

He feels a lurch of empathy and raps three times on the carriage door; immediately it pulls to a halt. Purposefully he steps away from the carriage and towards the family group, realising that despite the May sunshine, all are shivering like skeletons sustained only by the sun. Lining the Mall are spectators who have come to see the show; decked out in their Sunday best, toting flags, fold-up chairs and much patriotic paraphernalia. As before it is a frozen scene. But on the grass, the mother is turning towards him as he approaches; a thin smile like watered milk spills onto her face as she reaches into her pocket and begins to break bread to share with her children. He watches, aghast, as each child dutifully waits their turn for an apportioned scrap of bread. For a moment he fools himself: why they will feed the ducks as I like to do with little -

Only to swallow the ridiculous thought down, watching as each child rams the dry bread into their little mouth like it were the first square meal for days. 

The words stick in his throat.

“Dear Madam, why are you here?”

She stares at him from under heavy brows and he suddenly realises he may have seemed a little rude, it is a public park after all and this woman has as much of a right to be here, ignoring the spectacle, as he has to lead it. He tries again.

“Why do you have so very little to eat?”

She has questions of her own.

“How much can grow in fire or flood?” 

The bridge, a flash of green, brown leaves wilting…

“And when war is a scythe cutting lives like wheat, who is left to grind the grain to make the bread?”

The handkerchief is still damp within his pocket. Finally the questions stop.

“What little there is grows only to be placed on the platters of the rich.” 

Involuntarily his eyes turn towards the palace; he knows that within the tables will be being made ready for tonight’s feast. They would groan under the racks of lambs and quivering trifles, if they hadn’t been made to take such a weight: built to bear the opulent feasts, year after year.

His stomach heaves like someone is turning a handle, grinding the wheels of change into motion and he feels like he will never have an appetite again. 

Before him, the closest child shivers and it takes him but a moment to remove the long purple silk robe from about his shoulders and to wrap it about the child’s much smaller ones. The fabric is heavy with its long train but silky too and the mother bundles the last scrap of bread into his hand as she helps her child to keep it from slipping to the ground. Slowly he closes his fingers about the morsel, a soft sustenance he needs, though he can hardly say why. 

He ignores the waiting carriage, choosing to walk the remaining distance. He passes people whose faces are twisted as if caught by a strange fervour, staring into the distance for a glimpse of a man he himself can no longer see. 

He goes unnoticed by the unseeing eyes as he pushes open the door of the palace himself. Everything and yet nothing is the same as he climbs the stairs and crosses to the balcony. There is an absolute silence as he steps out and surveys the scene, sovereign of all he sees. Suddenly a noise cracks the calm as the Red Arrows streak through the sky overhead. The smoke from the colourful vapour trails loops and twists, scribing a message across the page of sky:

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty

The faces below seem to start to life, moving once more. They tilt like flowers, past the balcony, with its small figure standing alone; past the planes, already roaring into the future; up and beyond to the sun, burning hot, inscrutable and full of majesty.