King Slayer

Before sunrise, the ceremonial yard is almost empty. Canvas banners lie rolled along a stone bench, brass fittings are wrapped in cloth, and the long staffs rest beneath the arcade until the dew lifts. The marshal works through the order slowly, pairing each banner with the correct bearer and checking that every fastening can be opened with gloved hands. At the far end of the court, musicians warm their instruments one note at a time so the sound does not carry beyond the walls. Stable hands lead the horses through the side gate, then turn them in broad circles until they settle. Nothing is rushed. A loose buckle, a twisted cord or a missing tassel is easier to correct now than in the street. As the light strengthens, colours that looked almost black become crimson, blue and gold. The largest standard is unrolled last because it needs six people to keep its lower edge from touching the ground. By then the yard has filled with footsteps, harness bells and short instructions. Each group waits for the one ahead to clear the archway before moving forward. When the doors finally open, the procession leaves in the same order in which it was assembled: musicians first, then standards, mounted guards, civic officers and the long line of attendants behind them. Within minutes the court is quiet again, marked only by chalk numbers, folded cloths and a few lengths of cord left on the bench.