The Royal seal

Like most brides, Kate Middleton entered the church of the couple’s choice with one name and left it with another. But not with the expected title of princess which is in the gift of the Queen. Instead, Catherine -- as she will be formally known -- and Prince William emerged from the great West door of Westminster Abbey as the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. As the bridegroom’s official title is Prince William of Wales, the bride cannot be called Princess of Wales because that title is already occupied by Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, although she chooses not to use it.

But in the public’s mind, Catherine will always be Kate and Kate will always be a princess. Whatever the niceties of protocol yesterday’s affectionate banners in the crowd decreed it. The pageantry of the day had begun early at Buckingham Palace where the Queen conferred on her grandson a bumper bundle of honours as a wedding present. Not only is William now the Duke of Cambridge, a title dating from the middle ages, he is also Earl of Strathearn and Baron Carrickfergus, thus embodying the British Isles.

It would have been easy then for yesterday’s wedding to become leaden with heraldic overkill, but the couple had insisted that, within the inevitable regal grandeur, the ambience should reflect their own modernity and informal, winning style. That was evident from the moment that the two brother princes arrived at the abbey, 40 minutes ahead of the bride. William, in the scarlet uniform of Colonel of the Irish Guards, chatted readily to friends and relatives, blowing kisses to those immediately spotted among the 1200 guests, and taking time to talk to warmly to his uncle, Earl Spencer who had so fiercely rebuked the Windsors in this very place during the funeral of his sister, Diana, William’s mother. She didn’t need a royal title to generate “her particular brand of magic” the earl said then, a reference to Diana’s loss of her HRH status.

And in a far happier way the new duchess has already established a near magical poise and grace without any royal embellishments. It takes a brave bridal gown to hold its own within the soaring magnificence of Westminster Abbey but as Catherine began her three-and-a-half minute glide up the aisle on her father’s arm, her composure was perfect.

With a sense of theatrical timing that rivalled the military precision of the day, sunlight had pierced a pewter sky over London at exactly 10.55am to reveal the secret that not even Wikileaks could break. As she stepped from the Rolls-Royce which carried her to her wedding, the commoner bride who will someday be queen, didn’t disappoint the multitudes agog to see the dress of a thousand rumours.

Created by Sarah Burton, it was a triumph of exquisite simplicity and a testament to the salon of an artistic genius, the late Alexander McQueen.

As Ms Burton, Alexander McQueen’s successor, spread the fan-shaped train on the red carpet, the drama of the dress in ivory and white satin gazar, took on the purity of sculpture, a sophisticated simplicity which, of course, wasn’t simple at all. Hand-cut English lace and French Chantilly lace overlaid the narrow bodice, a surprising reference for a modern bride, to the Victorian tradition of corsetry, and so tiny there seemed hardly room inside it for a beating heart.

If there was any nervousness as the bride approached the altar to Parry’s transcendent anthem, I Was Glad, it was only glimpsed in the way father and daughter gripped each other’s hands.

Michael Middleton, a self-made millionaire of a mail-order party goods business -- and a normally smiling and quietly congenial figure -- appeared uncharacteristically tense as he helped his daughter from the bridal Rolls-Royce. He looked like many fathers do when giving away their daughters -- as if he had just swallowed a bad oyster.

Behind them, the maid of honour, Philippa Middleton, in a spectacular sheath of ivory satin crepe with an elegant cowl neckline, also designed by Sarah Burton, led garlanded bridesmaids in Kate Greenaway-style dresses by Nicki MacFarlane, and pages dressed in a uniform inspired by a Regency Foot Guards officer in the 1820s.

At the altar the two princes waited patiently, Harry, the best man, playfully glancing back as if to reassure the bridegroom that his duchess was finally on her way.

And as William glanced at his veiled bride for the first time, millions could lip-read his whispered message: “You look beautiful.” Both he and Catherine had been dreading the possibility of fluffing their lines as they recited his litany of baptismal names: William Arthur Philip Louis. They needn’t have worried. The only sticking point was the wedding ring which, for a moment, stubbornly refused to slide over the main knuckle of Catherine’s fourth finger on her left hand.

The Dean of Westminster, Dr John Hall, conducted the service, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, solemnised the marriage, and the Bishop of London, the Right Rev Richard Chartres, a friend of William, addressed the couple, beginning his sermon with a quotation from St Catherine of Siena, whose feast day it was: “Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” But there was a warning too that each must give the other space and freedom within the security of trusted love.

Westminster Abbey, its original foundation dating from before the Norman Conquest, has been the setting of many royal weddings and coronations. It is unlikely though that it has ever been the scene for such dramatic woodland beauty as that decorating its Gothic splendour yesterday.

Six maples and two hornbeams, each up to 20ft tall, transformed the abbey’s nave into an arborial avenue of shimmering spring green, the maples an emblem of humility and reserve, the hornbeams signifying resilience.

The guests had been arriving since 8.15am, an almost ungodly hour for the wearing of grand hats but that didn’t prevent a profusion of them blooming in the pews: tilted top hats in fine straw; feathered fascinators, fine straw halos, pillboxes, hats shaped like shells, hats spiralling heavenwards like a coil of fusilli.

Guest lists are always tricky and this one, as we came to know, was no exception. Apart from the notable absences of two recent Labour prime ministers, there was no Fergie, no Syrian ambassador, no Crown Prince of Bahrain. But there was more than a gulp of incredulity from the media as the King of Tonga appeared in the abbey: at first sight he’s a dead ringer for Mohammed al Fayed.

After the ceremony, the bridal carriage procession, escorted by the Household Cavalry, followed by the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh in the Glass Coach, and the Middletons in the Irish State Coach. Then what the crowd in the Mall had been waiting for: the Buckingham Palace balcony kiss, followed by a second kiss at the chanting of the crowd.

What did the day itself prove? No matter the turmoil abroad, no matter the fiscal gravity afflicting us at home, Britain still knows how to make a show, spectacularly. Though not a state occasion, this royal wedding was an event of historical significance, an enduring if contrary symbol of a modern kingdom expressing how it is ruled.