Hugh crossed himself and genuflected to the altar, and knelt on the cushion placed in readiness for his vigil. Hands clasped before his breast he closed his eyes, cleared his mind and began to pray.
Once he had completed the prescribed prayers Hugh opened his eyes and let his thoughts empty, waiting to see what would emerge of its own accord. Thus as a youth he had kept his vigil on the eve of knighthood and so thus would he pass his vigil on the eve of his coronation. Attempting to guide his contemplation to specific subjects had felt wrong back then, and would feel wrong now.
A thought formed, more of a concept and a recognition than words, something grander and deeper than could be captured with a label for communication. It was … posterity, legacy, history, what he would seek to shape with the divine rights granted to him. As if someone not in this room, not in this mundane world, asked him what he had it in him to be. What end would he use his authority for.
It was on his lips to utter the ambition he had clung to for much of his life, and say righteous. The prayer did not form, and Hugh realised that his soul did not resound with it. Not this time. Not for a while now.
What else might he seek to attain above all else if granted the honour of kingship? Strength. Wisdom. Intelligence. Cunning. Success. Conquest. Wealth. Piety. These words and more passed through his mind, and he knew all came from his own speculation of what kings before him had mediated on being. They were not
him.
He waited.
After a time he saw that there was something else, something as large and solid as a vein of granite within the earth. Strong like the stone, and like the stone a bedrock which gave foundation for all built above.
“Blessed Lord,” he prayed, lips moving silently, “Help me to be just. Guide me to bring justice to all under my hand. Aid me to destroy injustice in all its forms within my lands, and to stand against wrongdoers everywhere. Lend me your strength that I might be tireless in the pursuit of justice, and the wisdom that I might judge well and fairly in all matters for all people whenever I am called on. Clear my eyes so I might see inequity and corruption, and stand with me as I strive to purge them from my rule and reform for the good of all. Grant me the courage to stand by what is right always, in the darkest hour and in the most difficult case.”
Hugh bowed to the altar, so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. “That is the virtue I would guide my rule by, Lord. It is what I understand to be the cardinal obligation of a king. From justice comes peace, and from peace prosperity. Justice brings forth the best in we sinful men: compassion, wisdom, fairness, discipline. It drives back our weaknesses and checks our excesses.”
He straightened to sit on his heels. There was no feeling of answer, only of complete peace. Tears pricked at the corners of Hugh’s eyes and he bowed his head in gratitude; peace was blessing enough for a man who had felt none in weeks.
The doorway of Westminster loomed before Hugh like a mouth eager to swallow him. As he advanced to the abbey door he lowered his eyes to the red cloth which formed a lengthy pathway from his chambers to the stage where the throne awaited.
Crossing the threshold a sensation of sheer panic struck Hugh, and it was all he could do to continue his stately pace as though his mind was filled with the serenity of God’s own chosen. The entrance lay several paces behind now, and one more with each heartbeat. Close, and as unreachable as the sun. Hugh knew the man he was would never leave this place; each measured step took him closer to the end.
A choir sang, beautiful enough to break the heart. They sang for God and for him – a mere mortal placed close to the Almighty! Hugh’s heart pounded fit to shatter his ribs; he continued to advance with majesty to the fate which awaited him.
To the sides of the vast abbey hundreds – many hundreds – of people filed into place. Lords, ladies, notables, near-nobodies, shoulder to shoulder and in their finest and with their eyes fixed upon him. Upon his every move. Expectant. Hungry, almost.
Abruptly Hugh remembered a section from one of the histories he had read as a youth. Certain pagan tribes had ritually sacrificed their kings. Crowned them, robed them, cherished them, and slaughtered them. Was that so different to what was to be done to him? A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of his throat; Hugh sank his teeth into the soft inside of his lip and let the jolt of pain wash the madness away.
All too soon the procession reached the foot of the stage. Those ahead of Hugh split to the left and right to clear his path, and stood holding their glittering burdens in readiness for the ceremony.
Then the stairs were behind him, and Hugh stood before the throne. With a sweep of his arm he swung his mantle to the side and seated himself in a manoeuvre he had practiced rigorously, careful that the fabric fell across his knees in such a way that it formed pleasing folds with his robe.
The Archbishop of Canterbury moved to stand at Hugh’s right side. He voice rang out clearly, addressing the gathering to the right. “Is it your will that this man, Hugh, son of William, who was our former lord, be consecrated as our king? Do you give this man your consent?”
Hugh stood and faced the people the Archbishop had spoken to, letting them scrutinize him and see that he was sound of body and indeed the man they knew and not a substitute.
Hundreds of voices called, “So be it!” and “God bless King Hugh!”
As one Hugh and the Archbishop turned to the left and repeated the process, and again Hugh was acclaimed. Hugh moved to stand behind the throne, facing the half of the crowd that had been forced to stand behind the stage due to the lack of space. Once more the Archbishop’s ritual query rang through the building; Hugh realised that the fear was gone. In its place was acceptance. Part of him would die here, today. The sacrifice was necessary. He would not flinch from his obligation.
The firmetur manus tua filled the building, soaring to heaven on the pure voices of the choir. As the hymn concluded the bishops of Durham and Bath took Hugh’s arms and guided him down from the stage, through the abbey to the high altar for his blessing and a sermon.
Hugh knelt before the altar, one hand on the bible and the other on a relic of Saint Edward the Confessor. He took a deep breath and prayed his voice would come without catch or tremble. “I, Hugh, swear by these relics and by my immortal soul that I will keep peace, honour and duty towards God and the holy church and all her customs, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to exercise fair justice and equality amongst all the people of the realm, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to abolish any evil laws and customs that have been introduced to this realm, and to make good laws, and to keep those laws without fraud or evil intent, all the days of my life.”
Now it was time. He regained his feet and allowed himself to be stripped to his shirt and breeches. The fear had returned. His noble attendants seized the collar of his shirt, one on either side, and tore the linen so it fell from his body in rags. Hugh paid little attention. Just a man, just an ordinary man, nothing more and nothing less, now and never again, not in this life and not in the next. Minutes left. Only minutes, slipping by like sand rushing through the gaps in his fingers. Would the world be the same afterwards? Would
he be the same? His life would not – could not be. Shoes covered in gold work decoration were placed on his feet and time ran out.
Hugh swallowed hard, took a slow breath and knelt beneath the canopy set up close to the altar. Waiting was agony; like the condemned prisoner wishing the axe would never fall and wishing it would so the wait was over. Oh God, was he worthy?! How could he possibly be worthy!? Hugh’s stomach clenched, and the prayers still murmured on.
Then he felt warmth on his scalp and perfume filled the air about him. The chrism trickled down his forehead; Hugh clenched his eyes shut to keep from being blinded. It was done. He was no longer simply human: he was more, and ever would be. One of God’s chosen on earth, selected to rule over men and lands, elevated by God through mortal hands, closer to the Lord than any save the highest of the church.
Hugh risked opening his eyes; the oil had spread sufficiently that it no longer threatened to drip from his brow. The Archbishop drew a cross with the chrism on Hugh’s breast, and on each of his biceps. The linen cap which Suffolk had borne in the procession was placed on Hugh’s head lest anything remove the holy oil before seven days had passed.
As he pushed himself up from the cushion where he’d knelt Hugh thought a brief prayer for the part of his being which did not rise with him; the ordinary man he had been lay, in his imagination, sprawled like a corpse at his feet. But … he was anointed. Anointed! He had not been struck dead by God for daring to take what was not his. He was King of England and it was heaven’s will. King, and no earthly power could undo it.
Only one scene left to write now. The noise and interruptions continue unabated, and have in fact grown worse. Hurray for idiots doing noisy DIY, road works, thunder storms, and sundry other loud nuisances. And here I am, trying to write a nice touching funeral bit and touch up a few other scenes. Is it evil to hope that certain offenders drill through a live power cable?
You may recall me mentioning sitting an exam as part of a job interview. I was successful and got the job. Now I have to wait goodness knows how long for them to complete background checks so I can start. Froggy: civil servant for the Department of Work and Pensions. From bookshop manager to this – talk about going down in prestige
Ok, it’s far better pay, hours and benefits, and realistically is far better in every way except for the sad lack of books and the fact that bookshop manager is a far sight cooler
I’ve been fascinated by the human implications of the medieval theory of sacred kingship since I discovered it last century (sounds neater than saying “when I was very young”
). A drop of perfumed oil which took a normal person and turned them into a +1 human, to steal an RPG convention for the purposes of short illustration. Different personalities would react to that upgrade in different ways. The average personality would produce a fairly dull reaction, the pious one a little more interesting, the megalomaniac a far better one, and the one with self worth issues has the most potential of all. The same principle can be seen at work in some sci-fi. That cybernetic eyeball is one man’s cool upgrade and another’s loss of some tiny fragment of humanity.
For those wondering why we get to see the anointing but not the crowning, the oil made the king, not the crown and not the rest of the fancy ornaments. The anointing elevated you, the rest reminded the world you had been elevated.
Hugh entered this story proclaiming he wished to be a righteous king. Now the day has come he finds he would rather be a just king. That’s a good change; righteousness is at its heart of hearts a very selfish thing.
Incognitia, thanks. You wait until you see what he does in that tournament; makes me grin like a crazy frog. Though it might be more wince inducing for readers with sympathetic anatomy to his opponent
Avernite, no I hadn’t. I don’t get to read much on this site due to time issues. I had a quick browse of the recent posts in that topic but it’s a very busy thread with a tonne of posts, so I didn’t find that section before I had to leave. If you give me a post number to head to then I shall head over.
