The Bloody Tower

August 1483

The Tower of London has always cast a dark shadow over the city. William the Conqueror, the invading Norman king, had originally ordered the Tower to be built as a symbol of his strength and majesty. He intended for the castle to forever be a looming presence on city skyline, so that the king’s power would never be forgotten in the hearts and minds of the English people.

The white walls and turrets gleamed innocently in the early morning sunshine, belying the blood and sweat of the labourers who built the thick, stone walls with their bare hands. The building’s austere sharp angles gave no illusions of its purely functional nature.

But I had my own reasons for shuddering at the sight of the blanched stone turrets, as I walked along the riverbank that morning. My own father was beheaded just beyond these walls at Tower Hill. I was seven years old when he was executed for conspiring against the late King Edward and, although I do not remember my father clearly, for a long time his cadaver haunted my dreams, with its toothy grin and open, empty eyes. Now that I’m an adult, the nightmares have stopped but I have not forgotten the lessons his death taught me.

Always back a winner.

This is a lesson I have lived my life by – I fought alongside King Edward in the battle to regain his throne ten years after my father’s death and supported him throughout his kingship. And I would be equally loyal to my new king, his younger brother, Richard.

I touched my pockets anxiously as I hastened towards the imposing fortress, continually checking the important letter was still there. The letter’s weightlessness caused me to worry that it might vanish into thin air during my journey to London, or that I’d drop it into the river by accident – but, no, it was still there.

Such a small insignificant-looking thing, this paper thin, handwritten letter – but weightier than gold in all the things it didn’t say.

The castle walls were swathed in a thin, wet mist rising up from the river as I approached the gatehouse. The haze promised a fine day, but at that time in the morning the first bite of Autumn was just about discernible in the air. I shivered and wrapped my coat around me a bit tighter. Although, I knew it wasn’t really the chill which prickled my skin with goose bumps.

‘Is Sir Brackenbury here?’ I asked the gatekeeper. ‘I have an urgent message from his royal excellence, King Richard III.’

The gatekeeper pointed me in the right direction and I climbed the steps two at a time before knocking on the studded oaken door. The door creaked open to reveal the guileless, ruddy face of Sir Robert Brackenbury, Constable of the Tower.

‘James, come sit down.’ He beckoned me to sit at the desk which was piled with neatly filed papers and adorned with a tall, white waxen candle. ‘I believe you have a message for me?’

I held out the letter stamped with the royal seal. Brackenbury took the letter from me, expressionless and unsurprised. It crossed my mind that he’d been expecting this letter for some time now. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a tiny, ornate knife with which he deftly broke the waxen seal.

His eyes moved from left to right and back again as he skimmed the contents. It was not a long letter and once he’d finished reading, he leaned back in his chair and gazed at me intently.

‘You are a loyal servant to the king are you not?’ Brackenbury asked.

‘Certainly – as are you.’ King Richard’s fondness for the Constable of the Tower was well-known throughout all of England.

‘You fought alongside his late brother at the Battle of Tewkesbury too I believe?’

‘I have always been a loyal supporter of the Yorkists,’ I said.

‘Indeed. Edward brought salvation to this country that we had not seen for a long time. Perhaps you are not old enough to remember his predecessor – the Idiot King Henry?’

I knew the history and I already understood what Brackenbury was insinuating, but I let him continue anyway.

‘King Henry may as well have been a babe in arms. Some people are not meant to rule… idiots… babies. Our whole country suffers when that happens.’

I nodded gravely. Brackenbury, with a flick of his wrist, held up the letter to the candle flame and I watched the black smoke spiral and disappear whilst the paper disintegrated into ash.

He clasped his hands together as though he was praying and smiled benevolently.

‘You’re to have the keys of the Tower – tonight only.’

I was in no doubt what a privilege that was. Brackenbury hesitated momentarily and stood up from his chair.

‘But first, would you like to see the children?’

August 2019

Children everywhere. It was the final week of the school holidays of course, and Eddie groaned under the stifling swelter of the city. The heat almost seemed phosphorescent amid the smoky traffic fumes from just beyond the castle walls. When he’d originally promised his brother’s children a day out at the Tower of London, he’d imagined himself in the role of ‘Knowledgeable Uncle Eddie,’ patiently narrating the Tower’s long history, whilst his niece and nephew listened spellbound in fascination.

Oh, if only. The children spent far more time arguing with each other than learning, and Eddie’s patience was wearing thin.

‘Uncle Eddieeeee!’ his ten-year-old nephew complained while his older sister, Amelia poked him in the ribs.

‘Jackson’s scared!’ Amelia said. ‘He thinks there’s ghosts here.’

‘Well… maybe there are,’ Eddie said, firmly separating the two children so they now stood either side of him. ‘It’s a very old building.’

‘And he doesn’t like the ravens!’

‘I do like the ravens!’ Jackson crinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out at his sister in response. And I’m not scared.’

‘No one thinks anyone is scared,’ Eddie said, as he tried to wind their way through the web of tourists who kept stopping for photographs or to read information boards. So many people of all different ages, backgrounds and ethnicities – they’d all seemed to have flocked to London that day. It was difficult for Eddie to imagine the solemnity of the Tower as it once must have been. However, as a reminder of the Tower’s more sinister past, a cluster of ravens perched just above them on the battlements eyeing the crowds with ominous, black eyes.

‘Can we go and see the ravens, Uncle Eddie?’ Jackson pulled his arm in the other direction. ‘One of the boys at school told me they can talk!’

‘What’s that over there?’ Amelia asked, pointing at a smooth glass circle on the other side of the grass. A crowd of people were taking selfies in front the sculpture and obscuring their view. From a distance it looked like a perfectly clear fountain but when they drew nearer, it was obvious that the sculpture was fashioned completely from glass which was laid with a delicate crystal cushion.

‘Ah – it’s the Anne Boleyn memorial,’ Eddie told his niece. ‘Do you remember what I told you on the train earlier?’

Amelia seemed genuinely interested in the tale of Anne Boleyn, the unfortunate queen for whom the King had upturned the very foundations of the church to marry – only to order her execution in the Tower of London three years later. Eddie hadn’t been lying when he said the Tower may well be home to a few ghosts. He seized the opportunity to grasp his niece’s attention and started to lecture on the luckless fates of the king’s wives who came after Anne Boleyn. Amelia dutifully listened without interruption.

Just as Eddie moved on to describe the king’s sixth wife, he noticed that although his niece seemed attentive, Jackson had wandered a few metres away and was no longer listening.

‘Jackson?’ he called. The boy’s back was turned away from the memorial and he was looking towards the battlements in the other direction. He did not respond and so Eddie reached out to grab his shoulder.

The boy flinched and spun around in horror. His black hair, slight frame and red T-shirt were almost identical to Jackson’s, but Eddie now realised he’d mistaken the wrong child for his nephew. The boy’s mother ran over and put her arms around her son protectively. She glared at Eddie furiously - accusation plastered all over her face.

‘I’m so sorry but–’ Eddie started to apologise, whilst also looking around the courtyard frantically. ‘Jackson? Jackson!? JACKSON!’

But Jackson was nowhere to be seen.

August 1483

Perhaps it would be better not to see them – after all what good would it do?

Brackenbury hadn’t insisted on the point but he'd dutifully explained the way to the Garden Tower.

Just in case I decided to pay a visit to the boys, he said.

I knew it wasn’t a good idea but something still drew me in that direction – it felt like one of those wounds you can’t stop picking even though you know you’ll only make it worse. Admittedly I was also intrigued.

The boys’ room was instantly recognisable by the number of attendants waiting outside. Too late, I realised that obviously Bradbury hadn’t meant for me to pay a social call. He’d had something else in mind entirely. However, now my presence had been detected it was too late to back out. I nodded to the attendants and let myself through the door with the key as though nothing was amiss.

The two boys were playing chess on the stone floor. The taller one, cross-legged in front of the board, whilst the younger brother lay on his stomach, supporting his head in his hands, his face wrinkled in concentration as he studied the pieces in front of him.

As I entered, both boys looked at me in astonishment with wide open mouths. I realised that visitors must be a rarity. In confirmation of this, the taller child, Edward leapt to his feet.

‘Forgive me – but we so seldom have guests these days. To what do we owe the honour sir?’

Despite his courteous demeanour, the boy had the intonation and bearing of a king. But that was hardly surprising – for the twelve years of his short life he had expected as much. Both children had soft fair hair which had grown longer since their imprisonment and I was particularly struck by the resemblance of the older child to his father and namesake, the late King Edward.

‘Good day.’ I refused to kneel to child, royalty or not. ‘I am a friend of your uncle’s – his Highness King Richard III.’

A cloud darkened the boy’s large, melancholy eyes, but he maintained his calm, dignified exterior.

‘He is not the rightful king,’ was all he said.

There was an uncomfortable pause as I thought how King Richard had dismissed the two intended heirs to the monarchy by claiming their illegitimacy. Did they know? I was quite relieved when the younger child broke the silence.

‘Have you seen my mother?’ the young prince asked. ‘Does she miss us?’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ I answered truthfully. ‘But she is quite well – I am sure you’ll see her soon,’ I also said, less truthfully.

The boy’s eyes welled with tears at the idea of seeing his mother again after such a long imprisonment. His older brother put his arms around him protectively. I couldn’t help but think of the other two royal brothers - also called Edward and Richard, the father and uncle – and ask myself if they had once been as close as these two siblings appeared to be. If so, then what had caused such cruelty to come between them?

Once the flood of emotion had opened in young Richard, he was unable to stop. Large teardrops rolled from his eyes, leaving wet streaks on his pale cheeks.

‘I want to go outside!’ he sobbed. ‘Are you here to take us outside?’

I didn’t know what to say, but thankfully Edward came to the rescue.

‘Of course he is,’ Edward said, rubbing his brother’s shoulders to calm him. ‘That’s why you’re here isn’t it? You have a message from our Uncle Richard?’

As he looked at me, his face was old, despite his younger years. His eyes, large and noble, were the saddest eyes I had ever seen.

He knows, I realised.

The ruse worked and the boy stopped crying, instead he eyed me hopefully. ‘Really?’

‘Indeed – I’ve spoken to your uncle. You won’t be in here for much longer,’ I said.

‘Really!? Edward, do you hear that? We’ll get to go outside again – and maybe even see mother soon too. Sunshine, riding, games!’

It was the least I could do. Young Richard didn’t notice my choice of words but I was certain they weren’t lost on the older boy. Even so Edward gave me a grateful smile. 

‘God be with you,’ he said.

I wasn’t the only one who chose my words carefully. Edward’s meaning was not lost on me either.

Always back a winner, I thought.

I had made this choice a long time ago. If it wasn’t me then someone else would just as easily take my place. And so why not let it be me rather than another?

I said my goodbyes and closed the door, knowing that only hours later I would return again to fulfil my bloody task.

May God forgive me.

To the end of my days, I would always wonder if I had backed the wrong winner.

August 2019

Eddie felt as though he had run throughout the entire fortress before he finally found his nephew. Out of breath and wild-eyed, he’d run up the rampart steps to find Jackson innocently talking to the Ravenmaster about the birds. Eddie pounced on the small boy, crushing him with his embrace.

‘Where have you been?’ Eddie asked half furious, half relieved.

Amelia also appeared just behind, even more breathless than her uncle. She placed her hand on Jackson’s shoulder as a sign of affection. She’d been distraught that her brother had disappeared. Eddie guessed there’d be no more arguing on the train journey home.

 ‘I found this little one, all by himself in the Bloody Tower,’ the Ravenmaster said. He had a kindly crinkled face and was wearing the standard red, black tunic and flat black hat that all the Yeoman of the Guard wore. ‘He told me he was looking for the ravens so I said I’d show him.’

‘They can talk!’ Jackson said. ‘Listen to this… hello… hello.’

The bird on the wall faithfully mimicked him and then began to whistle. Jackson laughed.

‘What’s the Bloody Tower?’ Amelia asked, eyeing the raven’s hooked beak suspiciously. ‘That sounds unpleasant.’

‘Oh, it’s perfectly safe – don’t worry,’ the Ravenmaster said. ‘It was originally known as the Garden Tower but the name changed after the murder of the two princes.’

‘Murdered?’ Amelia asked with glee.

‘I’m afraid so… two young boys. Probably about the same age as you and your brother. They had the misfortune of being heirs to the English throne. When their father, King Edward IV died they were placed into the guardianship of their Uncle Richard, the Duke of Gloucester. Well… Richard decided that actually he’d quite like the throne for himself.’

‘Their uncle murdered them?’ She glanced at Eddie in horror.

Eddie laughed. ‘Let this be a warning to all unruly nephews and nieces.’

‘How awful!’ Amelia said. ‘How could he kill his own nephews?’

‘They were very different times to now, of course,’ the Ravenmaster said. ‘And their murders were never proven so it’s unlikely we’ll ever know for sure what happened. But we do know that Richard III claimed the two boys were illegitimate shortly after the death of Edward IV, automatically disinheriting them from the line of royal succession. We also know that Richard took the throne for himself, and that the children were locked in the Tower during the summer of 1483. They were seen in public less and less as the days went on, until disappearing altogether in late summer. It’s believed they were murdered in their sleep, by a servant of Richard III – a man called James Tyrell.’

‘The poor princes. I hope the murderers were punished,’ the little girl’s face creased in anger.

‘Well, in some ways they were,’ the Ravenmaster said. ‘Richard III’s reign was notoriously unsuccessful. He was killed in battle and his throne was usurped – and so it all came to nothing in the end.’

‘And James Tyrell?’ Eddie asked with interest.

‘James Tyrell was tried for treason several years later and sentenced to death – just before his execution he confessed to the murders of the princes. Whether out of conscience or some other motivation we will never know.’

‘Are there ghosts?’ Jackson asked.

The Ravenmaster chuckled. ‘Some say so young man – but who knows? I have never seen one.’

The rest of the day passed by without incident, and the trio walked towards to castle exit with tired feet and hungry stomachs. Dense clusters of tourists were still roaming around the ramparts of Tower. The place was alive with the buzz of people with a morbid fascination with the building’s bloody past.

Spectres and death must be a booming business if the ticket prices were anything to go by, Eddie thought. Yet it was difficult to imagine ghosts against the backdrop of such a vibrant city with the sounds of gridlock traffic shattering any solemnity.

‘I can’t believe we lost you’ Amelia said to her brother as they followed the stream of people towards the nearest underground station. ‘Idiot.’

‘Don’t tell Dad will you?’ Jackson begged.

‘What were you doing in the Bloody Tower anyway?’ Amelia asked.

‘I was talking to another boy. He said he lived there – and his eyes were the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.’