Keep your eyes on the damned road, Ryan wished as hard as he could. His exposure to London traffic to this point had been minimal, and only now did he appreciate that the city’s speed limit was considered a matter of contempt by the drivers. Being on the wrong side of the road didn’t help either.
“Tom Hughes — he’s the Chief Warder — told me what he had planned, and I figured you might want an escort who talks right.”
And drives right, Ryan thought as they passed a truck — lorry — on the wrong side. Or was it the right side? How do you tell? He could tell that they’d missed the truck’s taillights by about eighteen inches. English roads were not impressive for their width.
“Damned shame you didn’t get to see very much.”
“Well, Cathy did, and I caught a lot of TV.”
“What did you watch?”
Jack laughed. “I caught a lot of the replays of the cricket championships.”
“Did you ever figure out the rules?” Murray asked, turning his head again.
“It has rules?” Ryan asked incredulously. “Why spoil it with rules?”
“They say it does, but damn if I ever figured them out. But we’re getting even now.”
“How’s that?”
“Football is becoming pretty popular over here. Our kind, I mean. I gave Jimmy Owens a big runaround last year on the difference between offside and illegal procedure.”
“You mean encroachment and false start, don’t you?” the DPG man inquired.
“See? They’re catching on.”
“You mean I could have gotten football on TV, and nobody told me!”
“Too bad, Jack,” Cathy observed.
“Well, here we are.” Murray stood on the brakes as he turned downhill toward the river. Jack noticed that he seemed to be heading the wrong way down a one-way street, but at least he was going more slowly now. Finally the car stopped. It was dark. The sunset came early this time of year.
“Here’s your surprise.” Murray jumped out and got the door, allowing Ryan to repeat his imitation of a fiddler crab exiting from a car. “Hi, there, Tom!”
Two men approached, both in Tudor uniforms of blue and red. The one in the lead, a man in his late fifties, came directly to Ryan.
“Sir John, Lady Ryan, welcome to Her Majesty’s Tower of London. I am Thomas Hughes, this is Joseph Evans. I see that Dan managed to get you here on time.” Everyone shook hands.
“Yeah, we didn’t even have to break mach-1. May I ask what the surprise is?”
“But then it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Hughes pointed out. “I had hoped to conduct you around the grounds myself, but there’s something I must attend to. Joe will see to your needs, and I will rejoin you shortly.” The Chief Warder walked off with Dan Murray in his wake.
“Have you been to the Tower before?” Evans asked. Jack shook his head.
“I have, when I was nine,” Cathy said. “I don’t remember very much.”
Evans motioned for them to come along with him. “Well, we’ll try to implant the knowledge more permanently this time.”
“You guys are all soldiers, right?”
“Actually, Sir John, we are all ex-sergeant majors — well, two of us were warrant officers. I was sergeant major in 1 Para when I retired. I had to wait four years to get accepted here. There is quite a bit of interest in this job, as you might imagine. The competition is very keen.”
“So, you were what we call a command sergeant-major, sir?”
“Yes, I think that’s right.”
Ryan gave a quick look to the decorations on Evans’ coat — it looked more like a dress, but he had no plans to say that. Those ribbons didn’t mean that Evans had come out of the dentist’s office with no cavities. It didn’t take much imagination to figure what sort of men got appointed to this job. Evans didn’t walk; he marched with the sort of pride that took thirty years of soldiering to acquire.
“Is your arm troubling you, sir?”
“My name’s Jack, and my arm’s okay.”
“I had a cast just like that one back in sixty-eight, I think it was. Training accident,” Evans said with a rueful shake of his head. “Landed on a stone fence. Hurt like the very devil for weeks.”
“But you kept jumping.” And did your push-ups one-handed, didn’t you?
“Of course.” Evans stopped. “Right, now this imposing edifice is the Middle Tower. There used to be an outer structure right there where the souvenir shop is. They called it the Lion Tower, because that’s where the royal menagerie was kept until 1834.”
The speech was delivered as perfectly as Evans had done, several times per day, for the past four years. My first castle, Jack thought, looking at the stone walls.
“Was the moat for-real?”
“Oh, yes, and a very unpleasant one at that. The problem, you see, was that it was designed so that the river would wash in and out every day, thereby keeping it fresh and clean. Unfortunately the engineer didn’t do his sums quite right, and once the water came in, it stayed in. Even worse, everything that got thrown away by the people living here was naturally enough thrown into the moat — and stayed there, and rotted. I suppose it served a tactical purpose, though. The smell of the moat alone must have been sufficient to keep all but the most adventurous chaps away. It was finally drained in 1843, and now it serves a really useful purpose — the children can play football there. On the far side are swings and jungle gyms. Do you have children?”
“One and a ninth,” Cathy answered.
“Really?” Evans smiled in the darkness. “Bloody marvelous! I suppose that’s one Yank who will be forever — at least a little — British! Moira and I have two, both of them born overseas. Now this is the Byward Tower.”
“These things all had drawbridges, right?” Jack asked.
“Yes, the Lion and Middle towers were essentially islands with twenty or so feet of smelly water around them. You’ll also notice that the path into the grounds has a right-angle turn. The purpose of that, of course, was to make life difficult for the chaps with the battering ram.”
Jack looked at the width of the moat and the height of the walls as they passed into the Tower grounds proper. “So nobody ever took this place?”
Evans shook his head. “There has never been a serious attempt, and I wouldn’t much fancy trying today.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “You sweat having somebody come in and bomb the place?”
“That’s happened, I am sorry to say, in the White Tower, over ten years ago — terrorists. Security is somewhat tighter now,” Evans said.
In addition to the Yeoman Warders there were uniformed guards like those Ryan had encountered on The Mall, wearing the same red tunics and bearskin hats, and carrying the same kind of modern rifle. It was rather an odd contrast to Evans’ period uniform, but no one seemed to notice.
“You know, of course, that this facility served many purposes over the years. It was the royal prison, and as late as World War Two, Rudolf Hess was kept here. Now, do you know who was the first Queen of England to be executed here?”
“Anne Boleyn,” Cathy answered.
“Very good. They teach our history in America?” Evans asked.
“Masterpiece Theater,” Cathy explained. “I saw the TV show.”
“Well, then you know that all the private executions were carried out with an ax — except hers. King Henry had a special executioner imported from France; he used a sword instead of an ax.”
“He didn’t want it to hurt?” Cathy asked with a twisted smile. “Nice of him.”
“Yes, he was a considerate chap, wasn’t he? And this is Traitor’s Gate. You might be interested to know that it was originally called the Water Gate.”
Ryan laughed. “Lucky for you guys too, eh?”
“Indeed. Prisoners were taken through this gate by boat to Westminster for trial.”
“Then back here for their haircuts?”
“Only the really important ones. Those executions — they were private instead of public — were done on the Tower Green. The public executions were carried out elsewhere.” Evans led them through the gate in the Bloody Tower, after explaining its history. Ryan wondered if anyone had ever put all this place’s history into one book, and if so, how many volumes it required.
The Tower Green was far too pleasant to be the site of executions. Even the signs to keep people off the grass said Please. Two sides were lined with Tudor-style (of course) houses, but the northern edge was the site where the scaffolding was erected for the high-society executions. Evans went through the procedure, which included having the executionee pay the headsman — in advance — in the hope that he’d do a proper job.
“The last woman to be executed here,” Evans went on, “was Jane, Viscountess Rochford, 13 February, 1542.”