"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."
"What did she do?" Cathy asked.
"What she didn't do, actually. She neglected to tell King Henry the Eighth that his fifth wife, Catherine Howard, was, uh, amorously engaged with someone other than her husband," Evans said delicately.
"That was a real historic moment," Jack chuckled. "That's the last time a woman was ever executed for keeping her mouth shut."
Cathy smiled at her husband. "Jack, how about I break your other arm?"
"And what would Sally say?"
"She'd understand," his wife assured him.
"Sergeant major, isn't it amazing how women stick together?"
"I did not survive thirty-one years as a professional soldier by being so foolish as to get involved in domestic disputes," Evans said sensibly.
I lose, Ryan told himself. The remainder of the tour lasted about twenty minutes. The Yeoman led them downhill past the White Tower, then left toward an area roped off from the public. A moment later Ryan and his wife found themselves in another of the reasons that men applied for the job.
The Yeoman Warders had their own little pub hidden away in the 14th-century stonework. Plaques from every regiment in the British Army—and probably gifts from many others—lined the walls. Evans handed them off to yet another man. Dan Murray reappeared, a glass in his hand.
"Jack, Cathy, this is Bob Hallston."
"You must be thirsty," the man said.
"You could talk me into a beer," Jack admitted.
"Cathy?"
"Something soft."
"You're sure?" Hallston asked.
"I'm not a temperance worker, I just don't drink when I'm pregnant," Cathy explained.
"Congratulations!" Hallston took two steps to the bar and returned with a glass of lager for Jack, and what looked like ginger ale for his wife. "To your health, and your baby's."
Cathy beamed. There was something about pregnant women, Jack thought. His wife wasn't just pretty anymore. She glowed. He wondered if it was only for him.
"I understand you're a doctor?"
"I'm an ophthalmic surgeon."
"And you teach history, sir?"
"That's right. I take it you work here, too."
"Correct. There are thirty-nine of us. We are the ceremonial guardians of the Sovereign. We have invited you here to thank you for doing our job, and to join us in a small ceremony that we do every night."
"Since 1240," Murray said.
"The year 1240?" Cathy asked.
"Yeah, it's not something they cooked up for the tourists. This is the real thing," Murray said. "Right, Bob?"
"Quite real. When we lock up for the night, this museum collection becomes the safest place in England."