The Triple Goddess (14 page)

‘So, would you like to go? If you’ve got time, that is. I know all the Yeoman Warders, and they let me go where I want. There’s the best sandwich shop on the way.’

‘Very well, miss…Arbella, I accept. We’ll take the door in this corner. Nobody uses it and if there’s a waiter there, which I doubt, he won’t stop me even if things are still going on at the rostrum.’

As he stood up Arbella noted how elegantly Carew’s custom-made suit hung on his lanky frame.

They crossed Fenchurch Street and walked past Plantation House and turned left down Mincing Lane, where the precious metals of the world, as well as its spices, grains, tea, and coffee used to be traded. At the delicatessen on the other side of Great Tower Street, Arbella was greeted by a chorus of Italian. The owner came out from the back to kiss her on both cheeks, and make sure that she got what she wanted, issuing curt instructions to the waiter behind the counter.

Although Arbella tried to persuade Carew to order something more imaginative, he asked only for an egg-and-cress baguette and the largest-sized cup of coffee, which they had to wait some time for because the owner insisted, as Carew was with Signorina Arbella, on a fresh pot being made. After much ceremony and banter amidst gouts of steam from the coffee machine, it was poured into a big doubled Styrofoam cup and capped with a spouted plastic lid.

For herself Arbella ordered smoked salmon on granary bread without butter, and a bottle of still mineral water; which disappointed the owner but she would take nothing more. Despite the underwriter’s protestations she insisted on paying, and the sandwiches were wrapped and put with the other items into a small carrier bag.

After walking through the subway under Byward Street to Tower Place where the Chandler building was—neither of them commented on it—they passed All Hallows church and, opposite the gardens at Trinity Square, turned down to the Middle tower entrance to the Tower of London.

‘Oh, look,’ said Arbella, as they approached the main gate; ‘George the Beefeater has spotted us and is waving us to the front of the line. It always makes me feel special coming here; or rather I am made to feel special. It’s as if, in consideration of my ancestor having been locked up here, I’ve been granted a free pass by way of compensation for what my family went through.’

Carew said gravely, ‘Freedom to come and, more importantly, go. Yes, I can understand that.’

They approached George, a Beefeater whose florid features matched the roseate trimmings on his uniform, and Arbella was astounded when he smiled at her companion first and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Carew. Nice to see you as always.’

Then George beamed at her and made his usual courtesy of bowing and kissing Arbella’s hand. ‘Hello, missy, I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr Carew.’

As they walked through the gate, Arbella looked sideways at the mysterious underwriter; put out at the deference that her intended guest had received, she sharply corrected one of the guides they passed in fluent French on a point of history.

Jostled by a tourist, Carew looked tense. ‘Usually I try to come in when it’s a bit quieter,’ he said; and he put on such a burst of speed that Arbella had trouble keeping up in her unsuitable shoes.

They were lucky to find an empty bench on the edge of Tower Green; where no sooner had they sat down than a raven waddled over. From his piebald appearance Arbella recognized the bird as Corvax, known to the Yeoman Warders as Bloody Nasty.

Cocking an eye at Carew, Corvax squatted on his shoe, shook out his feathers, and went to sleep. Although he must have been heavy, Carew paid no attention to him and kept his foot still as, ignoring the spout on it, he removed the lid from his coffee cup and eyed the steam coming off the liquid.

‘It smells delicious,’ he said, ‘but it’s still too hot to drink.’ And he placed the open container carefully on the bench beside him.

Looking around them, Carew frowned and drew a deep breath as if he had come to an important decision and wished to make either an announcement or a confession. ‘You know, as historic and permanent as the Tower of London is, Arbella,’ he said slowly, ‘I always find it a sober reminder of the transitory nature of life, and how quickly fortunes change. Those who were in favour one day, and had the ear of the sovereign, the next were out on their own ears and languishing in a cell on a charge of High Treason. The Bastille is as nothing compared to it, I assure you.’

Arbella registered the strangeness of phrase and tense. It was as if Mr Carew had first-hand experience of imprisonment, or knew those who had suffered it. She took her time about responding, determined to recover the feeling of superiority that she was accustomed to enjoying whenever she was at the Tower of London, her home from home. Also, it was her subject and she did not like being lectured on it.

‘No,’ she said, ‘but the kings and queens who sent their upper-class enemies and offenders to the Tower still respected their lineage and position. Even in disgrace rank was important; which is why the aristocrats, the men and women who were “a cut above”, if you’ll pardon the levity, were executed here on Tower Green. Lesser prisoners were delivered by writ to the Sheriffs of London and taken to the scaffold at Tower Hill, or to Tyburn.

‘It’s not difficult to understand the fascination this place continues to exercise over people. For those condemned to die it was a bridge to the afterlife, a transition place or purgatory where they might attempt to divest themselves, either through prayer or meditation, of their attachment to the world and ease their departure from it. I think a lot of them succeeded in that.

‘Others…well, the atmosphere here seems imprinted, even saturated, with the intense sensations of fear and horror and pain that every imprisoned soul endured within these walls—doubly imprisoned, one might say, within their bodies and the walls, sooner or later to be liberated from both.’

Carew appeared taken aback by Arbella’s knowledge and forceful delivery, and said nothing, so she took the opportunity to keep going. ‘Time does not seem to pass here, only elongate, if that’s not too fanciful a conceit. Further, I think that some of those who were here were comforted by their confinement despite the knowledge of how their stay was likely to end. Because they had no choices left to make in life, the absence of responsibility came as a sort of release. By the time of their execution many were already halfway to death in their minds.’

Carew bit into his baguette and chewed fiercely. Having swallowed, he relaxed a bit. ‘Or half reborn. One has only to consider the quality of the writings penned within these walls by some of the condemned, which have endured as classics of literature. Most of those who came here were highly educated, and even the scratchings on the walls speak volumes. Their farewell speeches were often heartfelt and memorable. There’s nothing more conducive to eloquence and economy of thought than a confrontation with mortality, for as Samuel Johnson observed, “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.” Regarding the valedictory words spoken from the block, even at the last it was considered disrespectful to insult or rail against the monarch who had caused one to be tortured, and signed the execution order. The opportunity to speak was granted as a privilege and one was expected to rise to the occasion. Here Death came not as a lengthy and excruciating disease but quickly, and attended by rapt crowds and pomp and circumstance. Attention was paid. Drums rolled, and the prisoners mounted the stage and gave, in not a few instances, the performance of their lives. Then for the lucky ones it was over at the stroke of an axe—a single stroke, they hoped, because some of the executioners weren’t very proficient in the art of severance. Anne Bullen knew that, which is why she sent to France for an expert swordsman, and managed to be so merry on the day of her death. She was treated very badly, and ended bravely.’

By now Arbella had shed her pique and was beginning to appreciate Carew’s sharing of her enthusiasm. ‘Of course there were other fearsome prisons that date from the same period: Pontefract Castle for example, where Richard the Second met his end. However nobody wants to know about Pontefract. The Tower, which was not only a royal palace but a fortress and treasure-house and site of the Royal Mint, is much more interesting. It was a town in its own right, and home to soldiers and trades-people.’

Carew nodded. ‘Some of the inmates had large and expensively furnished apartments. Not for them the filthy rat-infested cells containing emaciated figures hung from the walls in chains, and torture chambers where the most unfortunate prisoners were taken to have the thumbscrews applied and be stretched on the rack. By arrangement with the Lieutenant of the Tower, a wealthy nobleman might be accompanied by a sizeable household. Chaplains, chirurgeons, apothecaries, scribes, tailors, laundresses, drapers, haberdashers, barbers, hatters, furriers, glovers, shoemakers—they were all allowed to come and go freely. Some of the most important prisoners were attended by their wives and children—not always willingly…on the part of the prisoners, I mean.’

Arbella smiled. ‘An occupant of the Tower even got paid a salary; under King James it was three hundred and eight pounds a year, and a peer of the realm got five hundred and sixteen. Such people were not on a diet of bread and water.’

‘No, but no amount of luxury could conceal or alter the outcome of one’s residency. “
Memento mori!
” the heads on the pikes at London Bridge reminded those who passed across it, or in their boats contended with the treacherous swirl of the rapids beneath: “Remember you must die!”’

‘Remember how we lived, more like. What about all those jolly royal progresses by barge to Greenwich, under rippling pennants and blazoned banners, with minstrels playing bagpipes and flutes? With the Knights of the Bath in their violet gowns and hoods lined with miniver, peers in crimson velvet, Ladies of Honour, gentlemen, and esquires. Such pageantry as one can only imagine!’

Carew finished a mouthful of egg and cress, and picked up his coffee cup. ‘It was an impressive sight, I’ll admit.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Arbella, looking up; ‘what has happened to the weather? It was so pleasant, and now the temperature has dropped, and there are some serious rain clouds coming in.’

At that moment Corvax the raven, who had been comfortably asleep on Carew’s shoe with his head under its wing, awoke and drove his beak into the underwriter’s foot. The point went through the leather as if it had been butter.

Carew yelled and leaped off the bench, spilling coffee on his trousers. He dropped the cup and pivoted briefly on his undamaged leg before falling to the ground with his injured limb at an odd angle. Arbella thought she might have heard something snap. Corvax, who had hopped clear, waddled jauntily off across the greensward with—it was plain to see even on a raven—an expression of satisfaction.

Using one arm as leverage on the bench, Carew struggled to get up but grimaced when he put weight on the injured foot, and collapsed again. Arbella moved quickly to support him under his other arm, and assisted him back onto the seat.

The underwriter’s face was white as he regarded the hole in his shoe, and Arbella spoke anxiously. ‘Mr Carew, are you all right? Is the pain very bad?’

‘No and yes,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Sorry. My foot is numb to the knee. That ruddy bird’s beak has almost certainly severed a tendon, and now I think my leg might be broken.’

‘Darn Corvax: that’s the raven’s name. The Yeoman Warders call him Bloody Nasty with good reason. He goes for the tourists when they take pictures of him.’ Arbella wagged her finger at the raven as he watched them smugly from the middle of the Green. ‘You’re a wicked bird, Corvax, and a disgrace to the Tower. I will inform the Yeoman Ravenmaster and he’ll put you on short rations for a month.’ Corvax croaked an avian expletive, took a few steps across the lawn, flapped his wings and took off. His flight was unsteady, owing to poor preening habits, but he made it to the ledge outside a pair of open diamond-leaded windows in the Bloody tower and disappeared.

‘That’s very odd,’ said Arbella; ‘he’s had his wings clipped, all the ravens have except for Oswald. Oswald is the Chief Raven. Someone must have mended Corvax’s, and it can’t have been the Ravenmaster because his job depends on their not escaping; not that any of them would want to considering the pampered life they live here. Who could be responsible, I wonder?’

Carew squinted at the aperture above. ‘I’m suspecting a certain person who lives here, as a favour in return for having small items delivered.’

‘Look here, sir, that wound must be treated before it goes septic. There’s a nurse at Lloyd’s, isn’t there? You should probably have a rabies shot or something. We need to get you up somehow.’

But though they both tried gamely it was no use and Carew’s pain increased.

There was a peal of thunder. ‘Oh dear,’ said Arbella, ‘and now the sky has turned black. It looks like we’re in for a hell of a storm. I tell you what, Mr Carew, you wait here [Carew raised a facetious eyebrow at this] while I go and find George the Beefeater. George is as strong as a horse and will help you inside and call the medical officer. Oh good, there’s George now across the Green. I’ll be right back.’

Arbella returned with the ruddy Yeoman Warder, who was carrying a halberd and puffing despite the short distance. ‘Old Bloody Nasty flew?’ he was saying; ‘you’re ’avin me on, Miss Arbella, Ravenmaster Arnold keeps ’is wings clipped at all times. ’E’ll want to wring the dratted bird’s neck when ’e ’ears abaht this. We know what ’appens if the ravens bugger ’orf, don’t we? The Tower and the kingdom’ll be destroyed and I’ll be aht of a job. Now we’re in for a bleedin’ monsoon. Me uniform’s going to shrink tighter than a wasp’s weskit.’