The coronation of Elizabeth Tudor was a spectacle worthy of the queen she would become.

Arthur did not ride with her through the streets of London in her coronation procession, though she offered him a place in the parade many times. He preferred to watch from the crowds, to see her from the perspective of the people she would govern. They were excited, pushing and shoving to catch a glimpse of their new Queen. They wanted to love her. All Elizabeth had to do was rise to the occasion and confirm their beliefs that she was the one who would lead them to glory.

Elizabeth, he noted with satisfaction, outdid herself. It was almost customary for rulers to stare fixedly ahead, straight-backed and regal, as though they were on a level above the people clamouring to see them. After all, they reasoned, did the people not want a ruler they could be sure was greater than them? But Elizabeth broke this unspoken tradition wholeheartedly. She bent down from her carriage to exchange words with the Londoners, accepting gifts and smiling like she'd known each one of them for years. Arthur watched, the crowd buffeting him from all sides, and couldn't help but smile as well.

She hadn't been so confident in the days leading up to this. She had spent them in the royal lodgings at the Tower of London, all the better to prepare her coronation procession and ceremony. She had put up a perfect front, of course, holding her head high and her face straight, but Arthur could see chinks in her armour.

"You are scared," he said, when they were alone in the royal lodgings after the procession had finished. "Don't be. It will all run smoothly, I will make sure of it."

"I am not scared," she snapped. He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to... I'm just a bit on edge." She ran her hands through her hair, pulling it out of the clips that held it atop her head, and it fell around her face in red curls. "I feel like I am walking a tightrope, Arthur. Like there's only one safe way forwards and a single wrong step will kill me. And this place is not helping," she added, glaring around at the stone walls surrounding them.

Unsure quite what to do, Arthur settled for patting her arm awkwardly. He had never been good at comforting people, but Elizabeth looked so worried and worn out that he knew he had to try. He knew why this place was bothering her: the Tower of London had, many years ago, been the place of execution of her mother, Anne Boleyn, along with many people she had known and been close to. As much as they tried to make the royal lodgings feel opulent and comfortable, there was a stench of death about the place that could never be erased.

"I will be here," he said. "I have seen many monarchs before you walk that tightrope. I could teach you to do handstands on it, if you will let me."

But, he thought, remembering her conduct at the procession, she would not need much of that. She could already do handstands on her own.

The coronation took place the next day, inside a lavishly decorated Westminster Abbey. Arthur's seat was not a particularly good one, neither close to the front nor presenting a particularly good view, but by craning his neck he could just see Elizabeth kneeling on the stage in robes of a gold that shimmered like metal. He tried to gauge her confidence, but the expression on her face was set and she showed no signs of nervousness. He had to admire her for that.

The ceremony itself was not long, which Arthur was grateful for. He had never had much patience for drawn-out formalities. The sermon part of the ceremony had already passed without issue, and Elizabeth now waited, stock-still, as the anointing was performed. When it was over, she rose to her feet and slowly, regally, stepped towards the throne and sank into it.

She looked right on it, Arthur found himself thinking. Like it had been made specially for her. Some of his previous monarchs had looked uncomfortable, out of place, and it had always been them who had gone on to make the most disappointing rulers. Elizabeth, however, looked as though she had been born to sit on it, and perhaps it was that realisation that lifted a weight from his shoulders.

She accepted the sword, armils, mantle, ring and sceptre and held them, her expression still determinedly blank. Arthur had seen countless coronations and knew what came next.

He hadn't realised he was holding his breath until it escaped from him all in a rush as the crown was settled on Elizabeth's head. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, as though amazed that it had actually happened, and then stared straight at him. She picked him out of the crowd as effortlessly as though a beacon was announcing his location to the whole room, she caught his eye and she smiled.

Triumphant fanfare and the screaming applause from the crowds outside echoed through the stone halls of Westminster Abbey as they smiled at each other, almost giddy with hope and excitement.

Elizabeth was Queen of England, and England loved her wholly and truly.