The horses look wonderful, Elizabeth thinks. They are all groomed to a gleam, their manes and tails carefully dressed, and their harness glittering.

Her father is waiting for her, looking emotional but managing a smile as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. ‘Lilibet … you look beautiful.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

‘I just pray that you and Philip will be as happy as Mummy and I have been.’

‘I hope so too,’ she says.

Pulled by four superb Windsor Greys from the Royal Mews, the Irish State Coach has moved forward under the portico. The horses stand patiently, shaking their manes occasionally. Elizabeth catches the eye of Cyril in his full scarlet and gold livery. He has been her footman for ten years and she invited him to the wedding in the abbey, only for the idea to be vetoed by the sergeant footman.

‘He says I’m on duty,’ Cyril told her. ‘I’ve got to go on the carriage, he says. At least I’ll get a good view!’

Elizabeth likes knowing he will be close, and when he lowers an eyelid in a wink, her face relaxes into a smile.

A roar on the other side of the arch indicates that the Queen and Princess Margaret have come into view.

‘Our turn,’ the King says, sounding strained.

Very carefully, Elizabeth is helped into the coach, the dressers piling the billowing train in after her. The King gets in beside her and there is a little jolt as the coachman gives the horses the word to walk on, a further escort of the Horse Guards falling in behind them.

‘We’re off,’ says the King. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ he jokes.

‘Oh, Papa!’

‘Do you think anyone would notice? We could just tell the c-coachman to put the horses to the gallop and head up to Balmoral.’

The fact that he is half serious makes it all the more touching. Elizabeth laughs a little unsteadily. Margaret has always been the demonstrative one, the one who flings her arms around her father. Elizabeth is more reserved, but now, just as they are hidden in the shadow of the archway, she leans against him.

‘You’re not losing me, Papa. I’ll always be here.’

The King squeezes her hand. ‘Thank you, Lilibet, for making me so proud. For doing your duty so well and so uncomplainingly. You don’t know what a comfort you are to me. All I want now is for you to have the happiness you deserve.’

‘I will have it with Philip, Papa, I know I will.’

‘In that case,’ her father says with a twisted smile, ‘we’d better get you to the abbey.’

As the carriage comes out from under the arch into the forecourt, the roar from the crowd swells to a deafening volume that only increases as the coach moves out into the Mall. The faces on either side are a blur, the noise they make beats at the panels of the carriage. It is exhilarating and oppressive at the same time to be isolated from and yet the focus of such sound.