In the great hall of the palace, where silver gleamed and speeches were to flow as rivers of formality, none expected aught but the customary pomp. Yet when the towering doors were cast wide, silence fell, for there entered the Princess Catherine, and the company beheld a vision that stilled every tongue.
Her Entrance in Rose
She was arrayed in a gown of blush-pink silk, adorned with lace about the neck and sheer sleeves that veiled yet revealed. Many in the hall knew the garment, for it was the very same she had borne in years past, when the Sovereigns of Spain were received. That she should don it anew, after the turning of more than a decade, was bold beyond precedent. Such choice spake not of want, but of resolve — a declaration that beauty is ageless, and that she, poised with queenly bearing, hath no need of new attire to prove her station.
Yet even as the throng gazed upon her robe, it was not the garment that bound their eyes, but the jewel that lay upon her breast.
The Ruby Garland of Queens
Upon the fair fabric rested a necklace of wondrous craft: the Floral Bandeau of Rubies and Diamonds, wrought in the form of petals, each gem a crimson fire encircled by starlike stones. Long had it slumbered in the vaults since the passing of the late Queen Elizabeth, seldom seen by mortal eye. Now, lo, it was brought forth anew, and fastened round Catherine’s neck.
“This jewel is no trinket,” murmured one close to the court. “It is a sign. In days of old the Queen lent it but rarely. For the Princess to wear it now, in this season of frailty for the King, telleth that she is chosen as the vessel of the Crown’s endurance.”
A Token in Troubled Times
The hour of its unveiling was not without meaning. The King, beset by the infirmities of his flesh, hath lessened his public toil. The Queen Consort Camilla hath borne heavier duties of state, yet Catherine’s radiant coming, serene and assured, bespoke a shift of balance. “The gown softened,” spake one sage of fashion, “but the rubies spake harder truth — she is rising into power.”
Some whisper that His Majesty himself commanded the jewel be brought forth and bestowed upon her, a seal of his trust. Others murmur that the Princess herself claimed it, a daring gesture of her own will.
Murmurs in the Hall, Fire in the Realm
Within the banquet chamber, nobles and envoys alike cast glances one to another. “The air was alive with murmuring ere she even took her seat,” spake a guest. And when she did, the King, smiling, placed his hand gently upon hers, as though to bless the moment.
Beyond the palace gates, the realm was ablaze. Across the marketplace of voices — what men now call the ether of “social” — tidings of Catherine’s raiment and jewel spread swifter than flame on dry heath. Images of her former wearing were set beside the present, and many declared she appeared untouched by time, as if the years themselves had bent their knee before her.
Rivalry and Destiny
Not all hearts were glad. It was said the Queen Consort, adorned in her sapphires, bore countenance more stern than soft, her jewels seeming heavy in contrast to the inevitability of Catherine’s rubies. Yet the Princess, beloved already by the younger generations of the realm, seemed only to grow in stature.
“Men departed not with discourse of treaties nor with memory of speeches,” quoth a courtier, “but with one thought: Catherine hath shown herself the future.”
The Final Word
Thus ended the feast. Candles burned low, voices faded, yet one truth lingered. Catherine had not merely worn silk and stone — she had borne the promise of what is to come. In that banquet, beneath crystal and whisper, she became not only jewel-bearer, but the jewel itself: the brightest light of the Crown’s morrow.
