wasted.’
They sat quietly then while a steady stream of tourists arrived, looked around briefly and proceeded on. Finally, gathering her things together, Laura stood up. ‘Are we ready to go Gail?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
They exited one at a time down the spiral staircase, or vice, to the lower level then outside to the pathway which led from the gate of the Bloody Tower back up the incline to the White Tower. The walk was not only slightly steep, but they were hedged in on both sides by walls, the one on the right now in ruins.
‘I know you feel sorry for Henry, but look, he was well taken care of while he was here and I don't think he chaffed one bit against his lost of freedom. He had every comfort, which is more than can be said for most of the prisoners kept here.’
Turning around to face the patch of green just in front of the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula, Laura pointed. ‘There’s the spot where three queens died. Two were King Henry the Eighth’s wives and the third was a tiny, frightened girl of sixteen. More victims were to follow for various reasons, but mostly to do with the “King's Displeasure”. The Chapel there became a yawning pit into which were thrown the remains of many otherwise decent human beings who dared to defy the Tudor regime. Between 1540 and 1640, more people were tortured here then at any other time in history. That’s the Tudor age, not Plantagenet.’
Gail was drawn to the spot where a simple plaque marked the site of the scaffold.
‘Very few people were executed here,’ Laura continued. ‘Most died on Tower Hill which was more public and a lot more entertaining for the masses. Five women did die here though.’
‘Tell me about them,’ Gail said her voice low and sad.
Laura began to tell Gail, in horrific detail, the deaths of Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Rochford and Lady Jane Grey. She left the best to last. ‘Margaret of Clarence, Countess of Salisbury, was executed in 1541. Margaret was the daughter of our very own George, Duke of Clarence. She was an old lady in her seventies by then but that didn't stop Henry the Eighth. Why he felt that it was necessary to execute an old woman is beyond me, but as usual, it had something to do with treason. She didn't make it easy for him, though. Apparently she refused to put her head on the block since that was what traitors did so the poor executioner ended up hacking at her neck and shoulders before the decapitation was finally accomplished.’
Gail just turned and fixed Laura with a steady gaze.
Laura smiled wickedly. ‘See, Richard wasn't that bad. At least he didn't go around butchering old ladies. Hey, don't blame me, I'm just telling the story.’
‘Where do you get all this stuff?’ Gail asked in mock disgust.
‘It's a hobby,’ Laura replied nonchalantly. ‘You have to admit it’s interesting though. Not the usual cut and dried - excuse the pun - material we studied in our history books.’
’You know what you're doing, don't you? All this talk of the Tudors is suppose to soften me up for what Richard did here. Well, it's not working. I want to hear about the Princes. Come on.’ Laura watched as Gail walked resolutely towards a rank of benches resting in shadow on the west side of the White Tower. She hesitated briefly before joining her.
‘Don't you want to see more of the Tower first? I know, let's see the Chapel and have a quick tour through the White Tower, which is filled with armour mostly then we can go and have lunch. Over lunch, we can get back to the Story. Okay?’
Gail eyed Laura briefly then agreed. Together they walked the short distance from the site of the scaffold to the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula. As Laura approached the door, she rummaged in her bag for her notes regarding the Chapel and its “inhabitants”.
‘Before we go in, can I read something here about the Chapel which, I think puts this particular building in context with its surroundings and with other churches we’ll see during our travels? This is what Lord Macaulay in his History of England wrote: -
In truth there is no sadder spot on earth than this little cemetery. Death is associated, not, as in Westminster and St. Paul's, with genius and virtue, with public veneration and with imperishable renown; not, as in our humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most enduring in social and domestic charities; but with whatever is darkest in human nature and in human destiny; with the savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted fame.
Laura sighed. ‘And yet, for all that, it’s a very pretty place especially since it’s been restored to something like its original glory.’
Inside, the Chapel was indeed magnificent. The sunlight poured through the latticed windows and fell on simple pews of English oak. As Laura and Gail were confronted by the wonders of the interior with its wealth of memorials, it became obvious to them that this was a special place, yet they were alone. The west door, which had closed behind them, cut off all sounds of the outside world and, as the two of them stood, transfixed, utter silence descended.
Laura was staring at a brass plaque which named, in order of internment, the most notable individuals buried in the Chapel when she realised that Gail had moved elsewhere. Laura was loathed to break the silence and disturb the almost mystical spell with which the Chapel held her, so in a very low whisper she said, ‘You know, it's strange that no one else has come in. You don't suppose that maybe we shouldn't be in here?’
‘Well, we aren't going to touch anything but, just in case, we’d better hurry and see as much as we can. Where are the queens buried?’
‘At the altar, I think.’
‘How many people are buried here do you suppose?’
‘Based on the Chapel’s records it’s been estimated that there was somewhere between fifteen hundred and two thousand individuals buried here.’
‘What?’ Gail practically shouted in surprise.
‘Remember, the Tower was home to a lot of people over hundreds of years; Yeoman Warders and their families, blacksmiths, zoo keepers, the workers and their families in the mint and the armouries. The list goes on and on. When a new floor was laid in the later part of the nineteenth century, it was discovered that there was no more room and that some of the more recent interments were barely two feet below the surface. Queen Victoria was informed and, in accordance with her wishes, many of the bones in the nave were placed in new coffins and reburied in the crypt. With new bodies going down all the time, many of the older coffins had been broken and their contents scattered. It must have been quite a mess.’
Before Gail could respond, the door to the outside slowly opened and a Yeoman Warden appeared. ‘I am sorry ladies, but the Chapel is only open to visitors at specific times. I must ask you both to please follow me out through this door, immediately.’
He wasn't angry. In fact he was very polite, but there was a slight hint of exasperation in his voice. He was waiting for them just beyond. Simultaneously they both offered their sincere apologies and then hurried on their way towards the White Tower, with Gail in the lead. They were almost around the north-east corner before Gail stopped and breathed a sigh of relief.
Laura
