The White Cross by Richard Masefield

multitude of gingery hairs beneath his thumb, all evidence of fleshly weakness, Baldwin struggles to believe, for all their male vitality.
    ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost…’
    A fourth cruciform marks the pale expanse of Richard’s back beneath the sunburnt collar line. Two more bless the fleshy saddle of each shoulder, a further two the elbows he lifts helpfully for unction; a movement in the kneeling prince which wafts the mingled odours of male sweat and French perfume to the unworldly nostrils of his archbishop.
    ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son…’ Disturbed and disconcerted by the man’s immense virility and something of a worrying response within himself, Baldwin makes the sign a ninth and final time across the royal brow, then wipes his hands, perceiving as he does so another kind of nakedness and one still more disturbing in Richard’s gleaming eyes.
    With shirt replaced and Cap of Maintenance set on his head, the anointed monarch rises for his investiture in a brilliant shaft of red and purple sunlight from the Abbey lantern. He stands with legs apart, chin up, chest out, to be enfolded in a Florentine silk tunic and sensational dalmactic of cinnamon and gold brocade.
    Girded with a jewelled braiel, armed with his father’s Sword of State, he steps into a pair of scarlet buskins and then waits splendidly aloof while two earls kneel to fit his golden spurs; whilst lesser constellations move around him. As each sacred item of adornment is brought to him from the altar, the Abbey choir fling alleluias to the vaulted roof. The archbishop bids the King receive the bracelets of Sincerity and Wisdom in token of his God’s embracing and winds the ancient torcs round Richard’s bulging biceps.
    ‘Receive the yoke of Christ by which you are subjected to the laws of God.’ A stole of purple China silk is looped round the royal neck and tied securely to the bracelets in a symbolically restrictive gesture, which Baldwin hopes against all likelihood the new king will take note of. But Richard can see nothing now beyond his own predestined pathway to the throne.
    As each new vestment touches his body he reacts with a pleasure that is physical. He takes a breath, sucks in his belly for the buckled braiel, holds arms out for the torcs, while in his fleshy, handsome face there blazes a look of triumph which calls to Baldwin’s mind, uncomfortably, the pagan rites that underlie a Christian coronation.
    ‘Receive this pallium, formed with four corners, to show that all four corners of this universe are subject to the power of God,’ he recites with blatant emphasis as Richard dons a mantle of terrific value, inches thick with gold embroidery and studded with cabochon gems.
    ‘This vestment serves as a reminder that no frail mortal, be he king or emperor, may reign without authority from God, who is the King of Kings!’
    Yet Richard stands, as frail as a bull elephant, as freighted with bullion and precious stones as any monarch of the Indies; glittering and coruscating; incandescent, radiating sparks of light; barbaric in his gaudy splendour. So dazzling that Baldwin has to blink.
    His most Serene Lord Richard, by Grace of God first king to take that name in England, with half of Europe at his feet and the Holy City of Jerusalem in prospect, turns slowly in his scintillating train to set his sumptuous back-end on a throne flanked like the Chair of Solomon by life-sized gilded lions. As an anointed monarch he’s already half divine; already seated, if not on God’s right hand, then on a level close approaching His celestial knees.
    The King’s bearded chin is up, his eyes are blazing.
    Archbishop Baldwin draws a breath. ‘Lord forgive him. He is eager for the chance to prove himself,’ he reasons with the image of Divinity he keeps inside his head. ‘Given time and proper guidance, I’m certain, Lord, he will acquire a sense of balance.’
    ‘AND WHO PRECISELY WOULD