The Daily Telegraph - Features
The Coronation was a triumphant blend of the ancient and modern
The historic ceremony said as much about politics and faith in Britain today as the new occupant of the throne. By Tim Stanley
Tennyson called Britain a “crowned republic”, and the Coronation illustrated what this means. Perhaps the defining image was of Charles III, cloaked in gold, wearing St Edward’s Crown and holding the two sceptres of spiritual and temporal power. He might almost have been a pharaoh.
Everything we saw at Westminster Abbey was designed to awe the spectator, to convince us that the monarchy is legitimate, and therefore unchallengeable – because it is very old and endorsed by God.
But beneath that weight of gold and precious stones was a 74-year old man. Thanks to the telescopic power of TV, we were able to watch as the Archbishop of Canterbury tried to persuade the Crown to stay in place with some vigorous twisting: the genius of monarchy is to invest the attention of a nation in flesh-and-blood human beings. We are constituted not like a republic, with its abstract ideals and declarations (so easily rewritten), but like a family, with the King as a literal “body politic”.
The Coronation service was mystical but it was also thoroughly human, saying as much about the country – its politics, faith and history – as it did the individual on the throne. It took place within a communion service, which is why it began with prayer and that powerful Kyrie sung in Welsh.
His Majesty was then “recognised” by the congregation. Facing the different points of the compass, he was addressed by the Archbishop at the High Altar, Lady of the Garter, Lady of the Thistle and a George Cross Holder from the Armed Forces – these representatives of service, honour and duty-taking asking us if we acknowledge the King as head of state (to which most of the Abbey yelled, “God save the King!”).
Loyalty, however, is a two way street. Under the Anglo-Saxons, kings also swore an oath to protect the church, be fair and be merciful, and by the Medieval era this had turned into a sacred pledge. It was inviolate. In that spirit, Charles III promised to cause “law and justice, in mercy, to be executed” in the realm. So, the King is owed our loyalty but we, in turn, are owed good governance
– a deal made while touching the Bible, the law of God, and sealed by kissing the holy book.
You might say that while republicans invent rights via constitutions, monarchs guard rights that come from the Almighty. They are certainly not the King’s to take away.
In the aftermath of the Reformation, which divorced the Church of England from Rome, coronations were choreographed to emphasise that we were no longer popish but nor were we like those radical Protestants on the
Continent. So what we saw at the Abbey was an exercise in “high Anglicanism”, a Christianity that stresses the importance of God becoming flesh through Jesus.
The Coronation rituals sought to make the divine tangible through beautiful music, such as Byrd’s setting of The Gloria (“Glory be to God in the highest”), or visual cues including the display of holy relics or that remarkable moment when the King removed the Robes of State prior to being anointed.
He was meant to look humble, even vulnerable – a child of God on the brink of transformation. The monarch’s body in a sense belongs to the nation, which is why we expect to be shown an heir as soon as it is born, or why Elizabeth II was placed in state at Westminster before her funeral.
Monarchs guard rights that come from the Almighty. They are not the King’s to take away
The choir sang, in English, Handel’s famous anthem Zadok the Priest – as it has done since 1727, connecting Charles III to the Israelite kings, who had their own national church (and certainly did not speak Latin). Even this biblical endorsement comes with strings, however. In the Old Testament, the Jews demanded a monarchy and God permitted it with the warning that the king would probably drive the country into the ground. All this came to pass: monarchy might have divine sanction, but is only moral so long as it is faithful to its oaths.
Some things are too holy to be seen. Hence His Majesty disappeared behind a screen – a canopy reflecting God’s embrace – to be anointed with holy oil. This physically transformed him into a King, just as two become one via a marriage, or a baby becomes part of the body of the church at baptism. He re-emerged to be dressed in the Colobium Sindonis, a sleeveless linen tunic, followed by the Supertunica, the embroidered gold coat inspired by vestments of the early church and the Byzantine empire.
If these various Catholic or Orthodox touches offend you, you’re not alone: many of the artefacts that the King went on to touch or be dressed in are relatively recent in construction because the originals were sold or destroyed during the 17th-century English Revolution. The republic did not approve of popish flummery. A pity because they attractively convey the new king’s duties.
The glove marked him out as an advocate for the honour of the people; the Sword of Spiritual Justice, carried majestically by Penny Mordaunt, symbolises authority and justice; the bracelets convey sincerity and wisdom; the Orb is the world under Christ; the robe and stole contribute to the theme of King as priest.
The spurs stand for chivalry, dating back to when kings would ride at the head of an army: on a Jungian level, Charles III is playing the role of Arthur and Justin Welby his Merlin. When many viewers saw some of the more fantastical robes on display, they said “It’s like Star Wars!” – forgetting that Star Wars is really like the Windsors, because it taps into all those fairytale archetypes of princesses, swords and dashing knights.
The crown placed on the King’s head was created in 1661, the previous one having been melted down by Oliver Cromwell’s gang, and is topped with a cross. It is a reminder of the Son of God, who wore a crown of thorns, just as the Orb represents the world under God’s rule. The Sceptre indicating the king’s authority is adorned with a cross, too.
Contrary to what some hardcore conservatives will tell you, coronations, like most traditions, have evolved over time (Henry I, for instance, inserted an oath to undo all the rubbish his predecessor had done). This service was, in structure, almost identical to 1953; ironically, it was the effort to make it a tad more democratic that upset republicans, when we were invited to swear our own oath to the King, rather than allow the service to do it on our behalf.
There was also a glance towards multiculturalism: His Majesty promised to uphold the “Protestant Reformed Religion” yet also “foster an environment in which people of all faiths and beliefs may live freely”, which is not a contradiction. One can believe something strongly yet defend the right of others to believe something else, or nothing at all.
Charles III’s Coronation ended, or perhaps reached its climax, in Holy Communion – and here was another interesting tweak from 1953. That year, the BBC chose not to broadcast the words of consecration, spoken by the Archbishop at the altar, when Anglicans believe the bread and wine become flesh and blood – presumably because this, like Elizabeth II’s anointing, was considered too holy. This time we got to hear it in all its mysterious glory, and it has to be said that royal births, weddings and deaths are probably the one time most contemporary Britons encounter religion.
Faith, which is the basis for most incredible claims of monarchy, is receding. When King Charles and Queen Camilla left in the rain, it was put down as a typical British April. When a storm broke at the coronation of Charles II in 1661, the thunder was described as God shouting for joy at the restoration of the monarchy.
What did the public make of all of this? What do they really believe? The same questions were asked in 1953, when many intellectuals were flummoxed by popular joy at the coronation and dismissed it as force of habit. The thinkers Edward Shills and Michael Young wrote a provocative essay arguing that the ceremony was in fact invested with great meaning – intuited, one suspects, if not academically understood – that national rituals are moments when apparently divided people come together to reaffirm what is sacred and right.
The Coronation of King Charles III, like that of his motherbefore him, was essentially a “national communion”.
It was never guaranteed that I would be invited to play a ceremonial role in the King’s Coronation – notwithstanding that my family has done so in coronations stretching back to 1066. But when I was invited to lead the King and Queen into Westminster Abbey while carrying the Royal Standard, some agonising weeks after I had submitted my request to take part, I felt a deep sense of relief.
My family has held the title of King or Queen’s Champion for almost a millennium. My 34th great-grandfather, Robert de Marmion, was William the Conqueror’s right-hand man in France. Our ancestral role has been performed at coronations in this country ever since.
And so, performing my duty at the King’s Coronation, I felt the weight of history on me – both national and personal. I thought, in particular, about my father, Captain John Dymoke, who carried the Royal Standard at Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953 and died seven years ago.
As I walked up the aisle in the Abbey, watched by 2,000 distinguished guests, it was him who was on my mind; a man I admired greatly.
What an occasion it was – without question the most meaningful day of my life (although my wife might remind me that our wedding day was also fairly significant). Majestic and moving, the ceremony went by without a hitch, as indeed we hoped it would after four thorough rehearsals. We were so well-practised, I felt utterly calm and collected by the time we did it for real.
There was, of course, pressure to get it right, knowing the world – and history – was watching. But as practised as we were, it was enormously different from the dry-runs we had done. Stripped of its congregation, the Abbey had felt vast during our day and a half of walk-throughs. On Saturday, packed full of people, it somehow felt rather smaller, and I was disappointed my part was over and done with so quickly, while also relieved I had managed it without tripping up. Relieved and immensely proud.
The most moving moment of all, though, was being present when the King made his vows to look after his country, a terribly important part of the ceremony. This, and also the performances by the choir, whose voices swelled to fill the Abbey, and the trumpeters whose sound resounded so beautifully.
My wife, Gail, sadly but understandably, could not attend the ceremony with me: the guest list was inevitably limited. Instead, she watched on television from our friends’ house in London, and joined me outside the Abbey afterwards.
I sincerely hope there will be a Dymoke at the next coronation, too, and the one after that. My eldest son, Henry, is running our estate in Lincolnshire: the same estate in Scrivelsby my family was given in exchange for our service back in the Middle Ages. I can only hope he is invited to take on the role of Champion next time around.
For me, it was the greatest honour to represent my generation of Dymokes at the service at the weekend.
Monarchy might have divine sanction, but it is only moral so long as it is faithful to its oaths ‘Leading the King into the Abbey I was just relieved not to trip up’ Francis Dymoke felt the weight of history as he carried the Royal Standard, just as his ancestors had
‘It was the most meaningful day of my life, although my wife might disagree’
Tiaras were off the menu but, boy, did some of the outfits dazzle. From Katy Perry in blush pink Vivienne Westwood to the beautiful national costumes worn by Queen Jetsun Pema of Bhutan, Queen Suthida of Thailand and Crown Princess Kiko of Japan, the clothes-watching was epic.
Better still, unlike at Elizabeth II’s funeral, where ogling the frocks and make-up had to be carried out semi-surreptitiously, this time it was sanctioned.
Look at those colours, the capes, the embroidery… And that was just Penny Mordaunt in her fabulous embroidered teal Safiyaa cape dress. The MP, who lost out in last year’s Conservative Party leadership contest, trended all day on Twitter. An early candidate for the Pippa Middleton Steals-theAttendance
Show award? Ms Middleton herself, now Pippa Matthews, seemed content to hand over that baton, toning things down in a slim, but not bottom-accentuating pale lemon dress coat from British designer Claire Mischevani that looked similar to McQueen dresses her big sister has worn.
But back to Mordaunt, who as Lord President of the Council [the Privy Council] was required to carry not just the metaphorical Middleton baton but the very real 17th-century Sword of State into the Abbey in the King’s Procession and hold it aloft for two hours. As the first female to perform this duty, she had no sartorial precedent and worked closely with designer Daniela Karnuts, the London-based founder of Safiyaa, and Hand and Lock (which embroidered the gold ferns on the dress) to create an outfit that, while it wasn’t Court dress, was appropriately magnificent. At least one Twitter user reminded us that Liz Truss originally appointed Mordaunt as Leader of the House of Commons with an eye to getting her off the main stage. Just shows what a beautifully fitted outfit with a clean, strong shoulderline (and knowing what suits your body) can do for you.
The powers that be had wanted a more egalitarian Coronation but the people spoke, and by early last week, the message had been received. Inclusivity: good. Egalitarian Coronation: oxymoron – which may explain why the dress code for those with official roles vacillated between military uniforms and morning suits in the run up to the big day. In the end, those who had them, wore their Coronation robes.
Senior working royals were always going to wear white Coronation gowns. We knew weeks ago that Queen Camilla’s long beaded gown would be designed by Bruce Oldfield. The peau de soie simple column had bracelet-length sleeves and a split front skirt and embroideries of wildflowers. You can go simple when you’re wearing Garrard & Co’s Queen Mary’s Crown set with 2,200 diamonds. Her Ladies in
– her sister Annabel Elliot and close friend Lady Lansdowne – looked streamlined and elegant in ivory satin columns by Fiona Clare, a designer who has often dressed Queen Camilla in the past decade. Striking a balance between grandeur and modernity was always going to be challenging, but they achieved it.
The Princess of Wales, who has become an infallible beacon of regal glamour (the artistry of her plaited, twisted low bun, by her long-time hairdresser Amanda Cook Tucker, will be the subject of chignon study for decades to come), turned to Sarah Burton at Alexander McQueen, her favourite designer for state occasions.
The silver embroidery on Kate's dress, featuring a thistle, rose, daffodil and shamrock, was exquisite. No wonder she lifted its hem outside the Abbey to protect it from puddles.
The Duchess of Edinburgh and her daughter, Lady Louise Windsor were dressed by Sophie’s go-to, Suzannah London (which also designed the impeccable metallic tweed coat dress India Hicks wore for her appearance on the BBC’s Coronation broadcast).
While these royals demonstrated the advantages of having a triedand-tested label for big moments, the grandeur was tempered with moments of whimsy. Those charming floral headdresses worn by the Princess of Wales and Princess Charlotte were designed by Jess Collett who, while she has provided hats for Princess Eugenie and her mother, Sarah, Duchess of York, is new to Kate.
Not that she’d care, but the Princess Royal ticked all kinds of trend boxes in her Gold-Stick-inWaiting role; cape, plumes, bows, military uniform. As ever, however, Princess Anne deserves her own category.
Her daughter, Zara Tindall (wearing Laura Green), the Countess of Caledon and Carole Middleton, all in coat dresses, also showed the timeless potency of painstaking tailoring. Blue was a resounding hit. Carole’s cobalt picked up the colour in her daughter Catherine’s cape.
Raven-haired Akshata Murty, the wife of the Prime Minister wore a lighter blue brocade dress, giving another win for Claire Mischevani, and a radiant, blonde Jill Biden in a cornflower coloured skirt-suit proved there’s a shade of blue for all skin tones. Given Jill’s granddaughter Finnegan’s chic cameo, it’s probably just as well Joe didn’t turn up. He’d only have been eclipsed by the female Bidens.
Pink was also popular. There were the blushes and nudes (Cherie Blair, living her best outfit life), Brigitte Macron (an even better life in one of the chicest outfits of the day) and Sophie Trudeau in Ted Baker (since Shiv wore it on Succession perceptions of Baker have clearly “evolved”). And there were the deep pinks : Queen Letizia of Spain’s ravishing bubblegum peplumed jacket and skirt by Carolina Herrera and Princess Beatrice’s magenta Beulah dress. Gathered necklines, it seems, are trending.
The number of yellow outfits suggested that a shade which was once considered unwearable has
The Princess of Wales has become an infallible beacon of regal glamour’
finally graduated from catwalk to Abbey. South African soprano Pretty Yende went big in a statement sleeved canary yellow silk dress by French designer Stéphane Rolland while Queen Rania of Jordan and Finnegan Biden opted for creamier versions.
The younger Biden won extra points for experimenting successfully with a fluttery cape that was incorporated into her dress. Queen Mathilde of Belgium maxed out in a glorious raspberry sorbet coloured cape dress with matching shoes and bag. Qatari royal Jawaher bint Hamad bin Suhaim Al-Thani’s embroidered cape was long, toned with the dress beneath it and exemplified megawatt Middle Eastern chic.
So often at these state occasions, it’s the details that linger. Eight-year-old Princess Charlotte’s adorable white Mary Janes and mini, matching-her-mother’s, McQueen cape. Prince Harry’s Dior suit (so long, TK Maxx). Lady Helen Taylor’s matador jacket (also Dior, from the Seville collection). Gorgeous brooches. The guests whose gloves matched their outfits: such as Princess Mary of Denmark, Queen Máxima of Holland and
Mette-Marit, Crown Princess of Norway (in Irish glover Paula Rowan). The increasingly vertiginous heels. The bows (Greek Princess Marie Chantal’s and Princess Mette Marit’s). The-have-they-haven’t, they-had surgery moments (fillers and Botox appear to have levelled-up and aristos are indulging in cosmetic injections along with footballers’ wives). As for the make-up, to the consternation of some, there was a lot of it.
But really, this is nothing new. Baroness Glenconner recalled on a Radio Four episode of The Reunion how she and the other five ladies-in-waiting at Elizabeth II’s Coronation in 1953 were officially advised to slap on the war paint. It was the first time TV cameras had been allowed into proceedings and, while Churchill disapproved – arguing that having people drink mugs of tea while watching such a solemn state occasion would be inappropriate – his government, having accepted the inevitable, didn’t want anyone in a key role looking pasty.
No confirmation as yet as to whether any of the protagonists had smuggled Mars bars into the ceremony, as Baroness Glenconner and her gang did. Melting chocolate would have played havoc with all those pastels. Is that why five-year-old Prince Louis, uncannily pristine in a blue doeskin tunic from Savile Row tailor Dege and Skinner, disappeared halfway through?