CHAPTER II HISTORICAL SKETCH

’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
Omar Khayyam.

The protoplasm from which the present Tower grew was a rude Celtic fort on the river slope of Tower Hill. Then came the Romans and built their London Wall, at the angle of which, commanding the Thames seawards, they also constructed a fortress. A portion of this Arx Palatina can still be seen to the east of the White Tower. But no part of this Roman work remains in the present Tower, though Shakespeare speaks of Julius C?sar’s Tower in Richard II.

Tower history, as we know it in any detail, begins with the Conquest. The Conqueror set Gundulf, a well-travelled monk of the monastery{22} of Bec, who had seen many beautiful buildings in the course of his wanderings, to work on the low ground between the hill and the river, and there, on the camping-ground of the Britons and the Romans, arose the White Tower, completed about 1078. Gundulf was not only a builder but an administrator, and the chronicles tell us that, as Bishop of Rochester, where he rebuilt the Cathedral, he was most earnest in the discharge of his episcopal duties.

When we reach the reign of Henry I. we have tidings of our first prisoner, Ralph Flambard, Bishop of Durham. He was immured for illegally raising funds for the upkeep of this very fortress, but had no desire to remain long an inmate within the walls he had been so anxious, aforetime, to preserve. A rope was conveyed to him in a wine-cask. With the wine he “fuddled his keepers”; with the rope he proceeded to lower himself down the outer wall of the White Tower, and, not at all alarmed at finding the rope too short and his arrival on the ground somewhat sudden, he was able to mount on horseback, ride to a seaport, and embark for Normandy. Subsequently he returned to Durham, where he completed the Cathedral and built Norham{23} Castle, in which Scott lays the opening scene of Marmion.

The Tower now became a royal palace and remained the dwelling-place of the Kings of England, or, at times, the stronghold to which they would retire when danger threatened, until the days of Charles II. At this early period of its history, too, it was found that a collection of wild beasts would lend some zest to life within its walls. This royal menagerie was located on the ground where the ticket-office and refreshment-rooms now stand, and was removed in 1834. It is said that the term “going to see the lions” of a place arose from the fashionable habit of visiting the Tower lions, and the lane off Great Tower Street, just beyond Allhallows Barking, was at one time not Beer but Bear Lane, and evidently led down to the pits in which the bears were expected to provide amusement for Court circles. Stephen kept Whitsuntide in the Tower in 1140, and in that year the Tower was in the charge of Geoffrey de Mandeville, who had accompanied the Conqueror to England, but in 1153 it was held for the Crown by Richard de Lucy, Chief Justiciary of England, in trust for Henry of Anjou, and to him it reverted on Stephen’s death. It was{24} a popular superstition at this time that the red appearance of the mortar used in binding the Tower walls was caused by the blood of beasts having been mixed with it in the making; but the ruddy tint was really the result of an admixture of pulverised Roman bricks with the lime. When Richard I. went off to the Crusades the Tower was left in the keeping of his Chancellor, Longchamp; and King John, on usurping the throne, laid siege to the fortress, which Longchamp surrendered to him. In 1215 the Tower was again besieged, this time by the barons and the citizens of London, but though the stronghold had but a poor garrison it held out successfully. In 1216 the rebellious nobles handed over the custody of the Tower to the Dauphin, Louis, but he appears to have considered the task too irksome, and “speedily returned to his own land.”

One of the greatest names in Tower history is that of Henry III., who appointed Adam of Lambourne master-mason of the buildings, and began to build and rebuild, to adorn and to beautify, never satisfied until he had made the Tower of London a royal dwelling-place indeed. To the Norman Chapel in the White Tower he gave stained glass and decorated the{25}

Image unavailable: THE PORTCULLIS IN BLOODY TOWER
THE PORTCULLIS IN BLOODY TOWER

walls with frescoes; to St. Peter’s, on Tower Green, he gave a set of bells. He constructed the Wharf, and the massive St. Thomas’s Tower and Traitor’s Gate were set up by him. But he had his difficulties to contend with. These additions to the fortification were unpopular with the citizens without the walls, and when a high tide washed away the Wharf, and, undermining the foundations of the new tower over Traitor’s Gate, brought it twice to the ground, the people rejoiced, hoping the King would own that Fate was against him. But after each disaster his only comment seems to have been “Build it stronger!” and there is Henry’s Wharf and St. Thomas’s Tower (recently restored) to this day. Henry also built the outer wall of the Tower facing the Moat, and in many other ways made the place a stronghold sure. The wisdom of what had been done was soon made manifest, for Henry had many a time to take refuge within Tower walls while rebellious subjects howled on the slopes of Tower Hill. For their unkind treatment of his wife, Queen Eleanor, Henry never forgave the people of London, and so defied them from within what had really become his castle walls. Eleanor was avaricious, proud, arrogant, and became so unpopular{26} that, when on one occasion she had left the Wharf by water, for Westminster, she was received, as her barge came into view of London Bridge, with such execrations and shouts of “Drown the witch!” or sounds to that effect, that she returned in terror to the Tower. In 1244 Griffin, son of Llewellyn, was brought as prisoner to the White Tower and detained as a hostage. He attempted to emulate the redoubtable Flambard by making a rope of his bedclothes and dropping from his window, by such means, to the ground. But he had forgotten to take the weight of his body into his calculations; he was a stout man, his hastily constructed rope was insecure, it broke as he hung upon the wall of the Tower, and he was killed by the fall.

Edward I., when he returned from the Holy Land, made the last additions of any consequence that were ever made to the Tower buildings. The Moat was formed in his day and put then into much of its present shape; it has, of course, been cleaned out and deepened from time to time, though there was always more mud than water in its basin, and, at one period, it was considered an offence that lead to instant death for any man to be discovered bathing therein, probably because he{27} was almost certain to die from the effects of a dip in such fluid as was to be found there! Multitudes of Jews were imprisoned in the dungeons under the White Tower in this reign on the charge of “clipping” the coin of the realm, and the Welsh and Scottish wars were the cause of many notable warriors, such as the Earls of Athol, Menteith, and Ross, King Baliol and his son Edward, and, in 1305, the patriot William Wallace, being given habitation in Tower dungeons. The noble Wallace, bravest of Scots, was put to death at Smithfield after some semblance of trial in Westminster Hall. But his name will never be forgotten, for it is enshrined by Burns in one of the noblest of Scottish songs.

Edward II. had no great partiality towards the Tower as a palace, but often retired there when in danger. In 1322 his eldest daughter was born here, and, from the place of her birth, was called Joan of the Tower. She lived to become, by marrying David Bruce, Queen of Scotland in 1327. We hear of the first woman to be imprisoned in Tower walls about this time—Lady Badlesmere—for refusing hospitality to Queen Isabella, and giving orders that the royal party was to be attacked as it approached her castle of Leeds, in{28} Kent. Lord Mortimer, a Welsh prisoner, contrived to escape from his dungeon by the old expedient of making his jailors drunk. He escaped to France, but soon returned, and with Edward’s Queen, Isabella, was party to Edward’s death at Berkeley Castle, whither the King had fled from London. The Tower had been left in the care of Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter, but the unfortunate man was seized by a mob of turbulent citizens, dragged into Cheapside, and there put to death. Poor Stapledon was a man of exemplary character and a generous patron of learning. He founded Exeter College, Oxford, and beautified Exeter Cathedral.

The rebel Mortimer and Queen Isabella thought it prudent to keep the young Edward III. within Tower walls in a state of semi-captivity, but the lad’s spirit was such that he soon succeeded in casting off the restraint and threw himself on the goodwill of his people. Mortimer was captured at Nottingham, brought to the Tower, then hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn Elms—where the Marble Arch now stands. The young King’s wars in France and Scotland were begun, and after the capture of Caen, over three hundred of its wealthiest men were brought to the Tower,{29} together with the Constable of France, the Count d’Eu, and the Count of Tankerville. It was while making preparations for this French war that Edward resided in the Tower and came to know its weakness and its strength. He placed a powerful garrison within its battlements when he set off for Normandy, but he was not satisfied in his heart with the state of his royal fortress. Returning secretly from France, and landing one November night at the Wharf, he found, as he had expected, the place but ill guarded. The Governor, the Chancellor, and several other officers were imprisoned for neglect of their duties, and the King set his house in order. The Scottish King, David Bruce, was captured at Neville’s Cross in 1346, and Froissart describes how a huge escort of armed men guarded the captive King—who was mounted on a black charger—and brought him to the Tower, through narrow City streets crowded with sightseers, past bodies of City Companies drawn up and clad in richest robes, in January 1347. At the Tower gate Bruce was given, with much ceremony, into the custody of Sir John d’Arcy, then Governor. The imprisoned King remained in the Tower eleven years. King John of France, and Philip, his son, were brought captives here in 1358 after{30} Poitiers. Though the Scots King had been liberated and they were so deprived of his society, yet it appears they had no unpleasant time of it in their quarters. There were many French nobles within the gates to make the semblance of a court. Both John and Philip were set free in 1360 by the Treaty of Bretigny.

Richard II. began his reign amid great rejoicings and feastings, and the Tower rang with revelries. On the day of his Coronation the King left his palace-fortress in great state, clad in white robes, and looking, as one account has it, “as beautiful as an archangel.” London seemed to have lost its sense of humour—if the sense had been at all developed at that time—for in Cheapside we are told a castle had been erected “from two sides of which wine ran forth abundantly, and at the top stood a golden angel, holding a crown, so contrived that when the King came near she bowed and presented it to him. In each of the towers was a beautiful virgin ... and each blew in the King’s face leaves of gold and flowers of gold counterfeit,” while the populace yelled blessings on their new monarch, and the conduits ran wine. But scarcely was the wine-stain out of the streets when the Wat Tyler rebellion broke{31} out, and it seemed likely that the cobbles would be soon stained red again, but not with wine. Richard and his mother sought refuge in the Tower while the yells beyond the walls were no longer those of acclamation but of detestation. Froissart likens the mob’s cries to the “hooting of devils.” Richard set out on the Thames to a conference with the leaders of the insurgents at Rotherhithe, but taking alarm before he had gone far down the river returned hurriedly to the Tower steps. With him in his place of security were Treasurer Hales and Archbishop Simon of Sudbury, for whose heads the mob shouted. Mayor Walworth suggested a sally upon the infuriated crowds, but this remedy was considered too desperate, and abandoned. The mob on Tower Hill demanded Sudbury; Sudbury was to be delivered to them; give them Sudbury. The awful glare of fire shone into the Tower casements, and the King looked out and saw the houses of many of his nobles being burnt to the ground. The Savoy was on fire, Westminster added flames to colour the waters of the Thames, and fire was seen to rise from the northern heights. Richard was but a boy, and so hard a trial found him almost unequal to the strain it imposed. What was to be{32} done? The King being persuaded to meet his rebellious subjects at Mile End, conceded their demands and granted pardons. There was a garrison of 1200 well-armed men in the Tower, but they were panic-stricken when, on the departure of the King, the rebel mob, which had stood beyond the moat, rushed over the drawbridges and into the very heart of the buildings. Archbishop Sudbury was celebrating Mass when the mob caught him, dragged him forth from the altar, and despatched him on Tower Hill. Treasurer Hales was also killed, and both heads were exposed on the gateway of old London Bridge. Yet, two days later, Tyler’s head was placed where Sudbury’s had been, and the Archbishop was buried with much pomp in Canterbury Cathedral. In 1387 Richard again sought refuge in the Tower. The Duke of Gloucester and other nobles had become exasperated at the weak King’s ways, and a commission appointed by Gloucester proceeded to govern the Kingdom; Richard’s army offering opposition was defeated. Subsequently, a conference was held in the Council Chamber of the White Tower, and Richard, on some kind of agreement being reached, left the Tower for Westminster. The King’s greatest friend, Sir{33} Simon Burley, was led to death on Tower Hill and his execution Richard swore to avenge. His opportunity came. Three years later another State procession left the Tower, with the King, as before, the chief personage in the midst of the brave show. Richard had married Isabel, daughter of Charles VI. of France. She had been dwelling in the Tower until the day of her coronation. In the midst of the festivities that celebrated the joyous event Gloucester was seized by the King’s orders, shipped off to Calais, and murdered; the Earl of Arundel was beheaded on Tower Hill. Warwick the King dared not kill, as he had done so much for his country in the wars with France, but after confinement in the Beauchamp Tower, he was sent to the Isle of Man, and there kept in prison for life. But Richard, in planning the fall of these men, brought destruction upon himself. He lost all self-control, and Mr. Gardiner believes that “it is most probable, without being actually insane, his mind had to some extent given way.” Parliament was dissolved—the King would rule without one; he would assume the powers of an autocrat. Events moved swiftly. John of Gaunt’s son, Henry of Lancaster, landed in England in 1399; Richard{34} was taken prisoner, and, on September 2 of that year, was brought to the Tower, a prisoner. In the White Tower—Shakespeare, however, lays the scene in Westminster Hall—he resigned his crown, and, shadowy king that he always was, vanished into the dark shadow that shrouds his end.

Henry IV. began his reign with a revival of Tower festivities. On the eve of his coronation, after much feasting and rejoicing, a solemn ceremonial took place in the Norman chapel of St. John, where forty-six new knights of the Order of the Bath watched their arms all night. With Henry’s reign begins, also, the list of State prisoners in the Tower, which was becoming less of a palace and more of a prison. The first captives were Welshmen—Llewellyn, a relation of Owen Glendower, being brought here in 1402. In the following year the Abbot of Winchelsea and other ecclesiastics were committed for inciting to rebellion, but Henry’s most notable prisoner was Prince James of Scotland. This lad of eleven was heir of Robert III., after the death of Rothesay, whose sad end is described in The Fair Maid of Perth. King Robert died, it is said, of a broken heart when he heard of his son’s captivity, and James became de facto King of Scotland while{35} unjustly immured in Henry’s prison-house. He remained a prisoner for eighteen years, two of which were spent in the Tower; from there he was removed to Nottingham Castle, and his uncle, the Duke of Albany, acted as Regent of the northern kingdom. It is interesting to learn, from some English and Scottish records, that his expenses in the Tower were 6s. 8d. a day for himself and 3s. 4d. for his attendants.

Henry V., on becoming King in 1413, was, according to the Chronicles of London, “brought to the Tower upon the Fryday, and on the morowe he rood through Chepe with a grete rought of lordes and knyghtes, the whiche he hadde newe made in the Tower on the night before.” About this time the Tower was full of persecuted followers of Wycliffe, the most famous being Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham. He had been a trusted servant of Henry IV.; to him was allotted the task of quelling insurrection in Wales at the time of the battle of Shrewsbury, and he then stood in high favour with the King and his son, now Henry V. A severe law had been passed with regard to those who held the principles of Wycliffe, and at the time of Henry V.’s accession, Oldcastle was found to favour the condemned Lollard doctrines. Not{36} long afterwards, by virtue (to quote J. R. Green), of “the first legal enactment of religious bloodshed which defiled our Statute Book,” Sir John was a captive in the Tower, and the King, forgetting old friendship, allowed matters to take their course. But Oldcastle, who evidently had friends and unknown adherents within the Tower walls, mysteriously escaped, and the Lollards, encouraged, brought their rising to a head. It was said that they had plotted to kill the King and make Oldcastle Regent of the kingdom; but their insurrection was quelled, the more prominent Lollards were either burnt or hanged, and Sir John, after wanderings in Wales, was caught, brought back to the Tower, and in December 1417, some say on Christmas Day, was hung in chains and burnt “over a slow fire” in Smithfield. He is the original of Shakespeare’s Falstaff, but had very little in common with that creation of the dramatist’s fancy. Shakespeare admits this in an epilogue where he says, “For Oldcastle died a martyr and this is not the man.” In Tennyson’s poem, Sir John Oldcastle, this brave old man exclaims, “God willing, I will burn for Him,” and, truly, he suffered a terrible death for his convictions. After Agincourt we have another notable prisoner in the Tower in the person of{37} Charles, Duke of Orleans, who was sent to the White Tower “with a ransom of 300,000 crowns on his head.” This captive, as did James of Scotland before him, passed many of the weary hours of captivity writing poetry. In the British Museum there is preserved a manuscript volume of his poems which is invaluable as containing the oldest picture of the Tower which is known to exist. This picture, beautifully coloured, shows the great keep of William the Conqueror whitewashed—hence its present name—and, in the background, the steep grassy slope of Tower Hill, old London Bridge, and the spires and towers of ancient London. It is a remarkable work of art, and is accessible to all in its many reproductions. Charles was liberated in 1440, in the reign of Henry VI.

The early days of the sixth Henry were not marked in Tower annals by events of great interest, and during the later Wars of the Roses the number of captives sent here was small, for most of them were murdered in cold blood, on the battlefields. Little quarter was given after those fights-to-the-death, and during the weary years of warfare the peerage, as one writer has it, “was almost annihilated.” The Cade rebellion broke out in 1450, in which year William de la Pole,{38} Duke of Suffolk, who had been charged with supporting it, was murdered. He was one of the most distinguished noblemen in England, yet the tragedy that ended his life was a sordid one. Upon a wholly unsubstantiated charge of treason he was shut up in the Tower; as he could not be proven guilty, he was released and banished the country. He took ship at Dover to cross to Calais, but was captured in the Channel by the captain of a vessel named Nicholas of the Tower. This was a name of ill-omen to Suffolk, to whom it had been told, in prophecy, that could he avoid the “danger of the Tower” he should be safe. As captive he was brought back to Dover, and his last moments are described in King Henry VI., Part II., Act iv., Scene 1, with realism.

In the summer of 1450 Lord Say was sent to the Tower by the King “to propitiate the rebels,” and they had him forth and beheaded him in Cheapside. Cade and his followers were attacking the fortress from Southwark, but at nightfall a sortie was made from the Tower, London Bridge was barricaded, and, a truce being called, the rebellion gradually subsided. Cade’s capture in a garden in Kent is told by Shakespeare in the tenth scene of the fourth act of the play just mentioned.{39}

Towton Heath was fought and lost by the Lancastrians; the Battle of Hexham crushed the remnant of the King’s army; the valiant Queen Margaret fled, taking her young son with her; and, very soon afterwards, poor Henry himself was led captive, and placed in the Wakefield Tower where, in the room in which the regalia is shown at the present day, he was murdered, we are told, by Richard of Gloucester or, more probably, by his orders, on May 21, 1471. But before his death, Warwick—that king-maker slain at Barnet in 1471—had given orders for Henry to be led on horseback through the city streets “while a turncoat populace shouted ‘God save King Harry!’” This was a poor and short-lived triumph. The weary-hearted King, “clad in a blue gown,” soon returned to the walls he was fated never again to leave alive. The city was flourishing under Yorkist rule and was not minded to seek Lancastrian restoration. It was the pull of prosperity against sentiment; the former won, as it usually contrives to do, and along with sentiment down went King Henry. Queen Margaret had meanwhile been brought to the Tower. Though she and her husband were both within Tower gates they did not meet again. The Queen was imprisoned{40} for five years—for part of that time at Windsor—and then was allowed to return to her own country. We meet her once again in Scott’s Anne of Geierstein.

Cannon, that had, as has been said, come into use for the first time at Crecy, were during Henry’s reign used by the Yorkists to “batter down” the walls of the Tower, but unsuccessfully. In 1843, when the moat was dried and cleared out, a large number of stone cannon-balls were discovered, and in all probability were those used at this bombardment.

Edward IV. had given the customary feast at the Tower on the coronation-eve and “made” thirty-two knights within its walls. These Knights of the Bath, “arrayed in blue gowns, with hoods and tokens of white silk upon their shoulders” rode before the new King on his progress from the Tower to Westminster Abbey on his coronation day. The King began his reign by sending Lancastrians to the Tower and beheading two, Sir Thomas Tudenham and Sir William Tyrrell, on Tower Hill. The Tower had come upon its darkest days. Though Edward favoured the fortress a good deal as a place of residence, rebuilt its fortifications and deepened its moat, he also used it{41}

Image unavailable: PORTION OF THE ARMOURY, WHITE TOWER
PORTION OF THE ARMOURY, WHITE TOWER

as a convenient place for ridding himself of all he wished to put out of his way. Victim after victim suffered cruel death within its walls. His brother Clarence mysteriously disappeared—tradition has maintained he was drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine, but that has never been proved in any way. However, the secrecy as to the manner of his death makes it none the less tragic to the imagination; how his last moments were passed the stones of the Bowyer Tower alone could tell us.

Young Edward V. was brought to the Tower by the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham, professing great loyalty and arranging that his coronation should take place on the 22nd of June following. But Richard of Gloucester was determined that if craft and strategy could accomplish his ends the next coronation would be his own. Lord Hastings, over loyal to the boy King was brought to the axe on Tower Green, and an attempt was made by the scheming Richard, who was now Protector, to prove that Edward was no true heir to the Crown. It was with a fine show of unwillingness that he accepted the call to kingship, but in July, 1483, he was crowned at Westminster. Edward, and his ten-year-old brother, Richard, disappeared. We shall{42} return to a consideration of their fate when examining the Bloody Tower.

Richard III., following the custom, gave sumptuous entertainments in the Tower to celebrate his first days as King, and the usual elaborate procession issued forth on the coronation day from the Tower gate, climbed the hill, and wended its way through the tortuous London streets to the city of Westminster, beyond. Richard seems to have spent much of his time, when in his capital, within his fortress-palace, and to have taken interest in at least one building near by. The Church of Allhallows Barking, on Tower Hill, as we shall see in Chapter VI., owes much to Richard, who appears to have considered Tower Walls thick enough to hide his evil deeds and keep out his good ones.

During this reign, as we find in the Wyatt Papers, a State prisoner, Sir Henry Wyatt, was thrown into a Tower dungeon for favouring Tudor claims and supporting Henry of Richmond. Richard, it is said, had him tortured, but the brave soldier refused to forsake his “poor and unhappy master” (afterwards Henry VII.) and so “the King, in a rage, had him confined in a low and narrow cell where he had not clothes sufficient to{43} warm him and was an-hungered.” The legend proceeds: “He had starved then, had not God, who sent a crow to feed His prophet, sent this and his country’s martyr a cat both to feed and warm him. It was his own relation from whom I had the story. A cat came one day down into the dungeon, and, as it were, offered herself unto him. He was glad of her, laid her on his bosom to warm him, and, by making much of her, won her love. After this she would come every day unto him divers times, and, when she could get one, brought him a pigeon. He complained to his keeper of his cold and short fare. The answer was ‘He durst not better it.’ ‘But,’ said Sir Henry, ‘if I can provide any, will you promise to dress it for me?’ ‘I may well enough,’ said the keeper, ‘you are safe for that matter,’ and being urged again, promised him and kept his promise.” The jailor dressed each time the pigeon the cat provided, and the prisoner was no longer an-hungered. Sir Henry Wyatt in his days of prosperity, when Henry VII. had come to the throne and made his faithful follower a Privy Councillor, “did ever make much of cats” and, the old writer goes on, “perhaps you will not find his picture anywhere but with a cat beside him.” Wyatt afterwards{44} became rich enough, under kingly favour, to purchase Allington Castle, one of the finest places of its kind in Kent. There are other Tower stories of men, saddened in their captivity, being helped in various ways by dumb animals. Many of them, we may hope, are true.

Our necessarily rapid journey through history has brought us to the illustrious Tudor Kings and Queens. The Tower was never more prominent in England’s records than during Tudor reign, from seventh Henry to the last days of great Elizabeth. The early years of the new King were to be remembered by an imprisonment in Tower walls that had little sense of justice as excuse. When the Duke of Clarence was put to death in Edward IV.’s reign, he left behind him his eldest son, then only three years old, whom Richard, after his own son’s death, had a mind to nominate as his heir. This was Edward, Earl of Warwick, who came to be shut up simply because he was a representative of the fallen house of York and had a better right to claim the Crown than Henry Tudor. That was his only offence, but it was sufficient; he lingered in confinement while Lambert Simnel was impersonating him in Ireland in 1487; he was led forth from his cell to parade city streets, for a{45} day of what must have tasted almost like happy freedom, in order that he might be seen of the people; and once again was he brought back to his place of confinement. Henry’s position was again in danger, when, in 1492, Perkin Warbeck, a young Fleming, landed in Ireland and proclaimed himself to be Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, son of Edward IV. His tale was that when his “brother” Edward was murdered in the Tower, he had escaped. He was even greeted, some time afterwards, by the Duchess of Burgundy, Edward IV.’s sister, as her nephew, and called the “White Rose of England.” With assistance from France and Scotland, Warbeck landed in England, and after many vicissitudes was captured, and put in the Tower, from whence he planned to escape and involved Edward of Warwick in the plot. This gave Henry his opportunity. Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn, and poor Warwick ended his long captivity at the block on Tower Hill. So was played another act of Tower tragedy. Sir William Stanley, concerned in the Warbeck rising, was also brought to the Tower, tried in the Council Chamber, condemned, and beheaded on Tower Hill on February 16, 1495. Still the plottings against the unpopular Henry went on, and the{46} headsman had ample work to do. To Tower Hill came Sir James Tyrrell, who had taken part in the murder of the Princes, and Sir John Wyndham—both brought there for the aid they had given to the plottings of Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk.

But now comes a break in the tales of bloodshed, and the Tower awoke once more to the sounds of feasting and rejoicing. In celebration of the marriage of Prince Arthur and Katherine of Aragon in St. Paul’s Cathedral, great tournaments and banquetings took place within the Tower and in its immediate vicinity. Tower Hill was gay with the coming and going of festive crowds; the Tower walls echoed what they seldom heard—the sounds of piping and dancing. Records tell us, too, of elaborate pageants which strove to show the descent of the bridegroom from Arthur of the Round Table. This method of impressing the moving scenes of history on the spectator is not unknown to us in the present day. Hardly had five months passed away, however, when the Prince, who was but a lad of fifteen, lay dead, and his mother, Elizabeth of York, who had given birth to a daughter in the Tower in 1503, died nine days after Prince Arthur. When six more years had passed, the King, whose reign had been so{47} troubled, was laid by the side of his wife, in “the glorious shrine in Westminster Abbey which bears his name.”

Henry VIII. was now on the throne, at the age of eighteen, and once again the Tower looms largely in the view, and approaches the height of its notoriety as State prison and antechamber to the place of death. But, as in former times, the record is not one of unrelieved gloom. The two sides of the picture are admirably exemplified at the beginning of Henry’s reign, for, shortly after he had imprisoned his father’s “extortioners,” Empson and Dudley, and subsequently caused them to be beheaded on Tower Hill, he made great show and ceremony during the Court held at the Tower before the first of his many weddings. Twenty-four Knights of the Bath were created, and, with all the ancient pomp and splendour—for Henry had a keen eye for the picturesque—the usual procession from Tower to Westminster duly impressed, by its glitter, a populace ever ready to acclaim a coronation, in the too-human hope that the new will prove better than the old.

The young King appointed Commissioners to make additions and improvements within the Tower. The roomy Lieutenant’s House was built,{48} and had access to the adjoining towers; additional warders’ houses were erected and alterations were made within the Bell and St. Thomas’s Towers. About this time the White Tower received attention, and from the State Papers of the period we learn that it was “embattled, coped, indented, and cressed with Caen stone to the extent of five hundred feet.” It is almost as though Henry were anxious that his royal prison should be prepared to receive the many new occupants of its rooms and dungeons that he was about to send there, for no sooner were these renovations completed than the chronicle of bloodshed begins afresh.

The Earl of Suffolk, already spoken of in connection with a plot in the preceding reign, came to the axe in 1513; a few years passed and the Tower was filled with men apprehended in City riots, in an attempt to subdue which the Tower guns were actually “fired upon the city”; Edward, Duke of Buckingham, at one time a favourite of Henry’s, was traduced by Wolsey, who represented, out of revenge, that the Duke laid some claim to the Crown, and he was beheaded on Tower Green on May 17, 1521. In Brewer’s Introduction to the State Papers of Henry VIII., we read, with reference to this trial and death of{49}

Image unavailable: Panorama of the Tower and Greenwich in 1543. By Anthony van den Wyngaerde. 102. Houndsditch. 103. Crutched Friars. 104. Priory of Holy Trinity. 105. Aldgate. 106. St. Botolph, Aldgate. 107. The Minories. 108. The Postern Gate. 109. Great Tower Hill. 110. Place of Execution. 111. Allhallow’s Church, Barking. 112. The Custom House. 113. Tower of London. 114. The White Tower. 115. Traitor’s Gate. 116. Little Tower Hill. 117. East Smithfield. 118. Stepney. 119. St. Catherine’s Church. 120. St. Catherine’s Dock. 121. St. Catherine’s Hospital. 122. Isle of Dogs. 123. Monastery of Bermondsey. 124. Says Court, Deptford. 125. Palace of Placentia.
Panorama of the Tower and Greenwich in 1543. By Anthony van den Wyngaerde.
102. Houndsditch.
103. Crutched Friars.
104. Priory of Holy Trinity.
105. Aldgate.     106. St. Botolph, Aldgate.
107. The Minories.
108. The Postern Gate.
109. Great Tower Hill.     110. Place of Execution.
111. Allhallow’s Church, Barking.
112. The Custom House.
113. Tower of London.     114. The White Tower.
115. Traitor’s Gate.
116. Little Tower Hill.
117. East Smithfield.     118. Stepney. 119. St. Catherine’s Church.
120. St. Catherine’s Dock.
121. St. Catherine’s Hospital.     122. Isle of Dogs.
123. Monastery of Bermondsey.
124. Says Court, Deptford.
125. Palace of Placentia.

Larger image[150 kb] Largest image [1mb]

Buckingham, that the Duke of Norfolk, not without tears, delivered sentence thus: “You are to be led back to prison, laid on a hurdle, and so drawn to the place of execution; you are there to be hanged, cut down alive, your members cut off and cast into the fire, your bowels burnt before your eyes, your head smitten off, your body quartered and divided at the King’s will.” Buckingham heard this terrible form of punishment with calmness, and said that so should traitors be spoken unto, but that he was never one. After the trial, which had lasted nearly a week, the Duke was conveyed on the river from Westminster to the Temple steps and brought through Eastcheap to the Tower. Buckingham’s last words as he mounted the scaffold on the Green were that he died a true man to the King, “whom, through my own negligence and lack of grace I have offended.” In a few moments his head was off, the block was covered with his blood, and some good friars took up his body, covered it with a cloak, and carried it to the Church of Austin Friars, where it was buried with all solemnity. So fell the once mighty Buckingham, and in his last moments, and after his death, he was not forgotten by “poor religious{50} men, to whom, in his lifetime, he had been kind.”

Again the curtain falls on tragedy and rises on comedy. Twelve years later Tower Green was given over to revelry; and laughter, singing, and mumming were revived under the walls of the White Tower. A writer of the time speaks of the “marvellous cunning pageants,” and the “fountains running with wine” as Henry brought hither his new Queen, Anne Boleyn, for whom, on her entry “there was such a pele of gonnes as hath not byn herde lyke a great while before.” Once more, also, there was made procession, in state, but with scant applause of the people this time, from Tower Hill to Westminster. Soon the shadows return, and the “gonnes” and the music cease. Three short years pass and Anne Boleyn comes back to the Tower in sadness and in silence. On the spot where Buckingham suffered, her head, on May 19, 1536, was severed from her body. Three days afterwards Henry had married Jane Seymour.

During the short life of Anne Boleyn as Queen, Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More had come to the scaffold. Their imprisonment and death are dealt with in the next chapter. The{51} “Pilgrimage of Grace,” a religious rising in the North, mostly within the borders of Yorkshire, to protest against the spoliation of the monasteries and the threatened attack on the parish churches, caused many a leader to be confined within the Tower. Its dungeons were filled with prisoners.

The magnificent Abbeys of Rievaulx, Fountains, and Jervaulx, in the Yorkshire dales, were pulled down, and to this day their noble ruins cry shame upon the despoilers. To the Tower came the Abbots of Jervaulx and Fountains, with the Prior of Bridlington, and they were hanged, eventually, at Tyburn Tree. Other prisoners were Lords Hussey and Darcey; the first was beheaded in Lincoln, the other on Tower Hill. With them were brought Sir Robert Constable, Sir John and Lady Bulmer, Sir Thomas Percy, Sir Francis Bigod, Sir Stephen Hamilton, Robert Aske, William, son of Lord Lumley, and many a one of Yorkshire birth whose names have not come down to us. All were put to death, without mercy, in 1537.

Two years after the suppression of this rising in the North a smouldering Yorkist insurrection in the West was stamped out by the usual method of securing the leaders, in this case Henry Courtenay,{52} Marquis of Exeter, Sir Edward Nevill and Sir Nicholas Carew, and taking off their heads on Tower Hill. Others were seized about this time, accused of being implicated in certain traitorous correspondence, and were also brought to the Tower. Amongst them were Lord Montague and Sir Geoffrey Pole, with their mother the Countess of Salisbury, Sir Adrian Fortescue, Sir Thomas Dingley, and the Marchioness of Exeter. As regards the aged Countess of Salisbury, in a contemporary document it is said that “she maketh great moan, for that she wanteth necessary apparel, both for change and also to keep her warm.” In a history dealing with the period, by Lord Herbert of Cherbury, we have a description of the Countess’s last moments, which were tragic enough even for Tower records. On May 28, 1541, “the old lady was brought to the scaffold, set up in the Tower [on Tower Green], and was commanded to lay her head on the block; but she, as a person of great quality assured me, refused, saying, ‘I am no traitor’; neither would it serve that the executioner told her it was the fashion, so turning her grey head every way, she bid him, if he would have her head, to get it off as he could; so that he was constrained to fetch it{53} off slovenly.” However, Froude discredits this story, and it certainly seems to be almost too fantastic to be true. Still, the fact remains that the Countess was subjected to unnecessarily harsh treatment while in the Tower, for the reason, it is said, that the King hoped she might die under the privations and so save him bringing her to the block. To Thomas Cromwell, the instigator of the terrible punishments that were meted out to those concerned in the risings, fate had already brought retribution. In 1540 he had been created Earl of Essex; a few months afterwards his fall came; on a day of July in that year he, too, came to the Tower and suffered the death, on Tower Green, that he had prescribed for others. The Tower was becoming like some mighty monster whose craving for human blood was hard to satisfy. Accuser and accused, yeoman and earl, youth and age, innocence and guilt, seemed to come alike into its greedy maw. Cromwell was taken from the House of Lords to the Tower, and the angry King would listen to no word in his favour. Whatever his crimes as tyrant-councillor to Henry, two things may be reckoned to his credit, for no man is altogether bad. The Bible was printed in English, in 1538, at his wish, and he{54} initiated a system of keeping parish registers. At the time of Cromwell’s death the Tower was inconveniently full of “Protestant heretics,” three of whom were got rid of by the simple expedient of burning them in Smithfield, while an equal number of Catholics, who were prepared to deny the King’s supremacy in matters ecclesiastical, went with them.

The King had not been too busy with ridding himself of enemies, or supposed enemies, to neglect other things. He had married and divorced Anne of Cleves, and had taken Katherine Howard to be his Queen. But her fate was not long delayed, and another royal head was brought to the axe on Tower Green. Before her death she had asked that the block might be brought to her cell in order that she might learn how to lay her head upon it, and this strange request was granted. Lady Rochford, the Queen’s companion, was executed on the Green after her mistress had suffered. An eye-witness of the executions has left it on record that both victims made “the moost godly and chrystian end that ever was heard tell of, I thynke sins the world’s creation.” Katherine Howard was only twenty-two years old when the Tower claimed her life. Many of her relatives were imprisoned at the same time, among them being her grandmother,{55} the Duchess of Norfolk, the Countess of Bridgewater, Lord and Lady William Howard, and Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. It is rather startling to find that a prisoner in the Tower could “die for joy” upon hearing that the charge brought against him was not proven. This singular death released the troubled soul of Viscount Lisle from the walls of his dungeon and from the trials of this mortal life, in the year that Queen Katherine was brought to the Green.

From execution we turn to torture. Anne Askew, “an ardent believer in the Reformed faith,” was cast into the Tower for denying the doctrine of Transubstantiation. In an account of her sufferings by Lord de Ros we are told that “the unhappy lady was carried to a dungeon and laid on the rack in the presence of the Lieutenant of the Tower and Chancellor Wriothesley. But when she endured the torture without opening her lips in reply to the Chancellor’s questions, he became furious, and seizing the wheel himself, strained it with all his force till Knyvett [the Lieutenant], revolting at such cruelty, insisted on her release from the dreadful machine. It was but just in time to save her life, for she had twice swooned, and her limbs had been so stretched and her joints so{56} injured, that she was never again able to walk.... She was shortly afterwards carried to Smithfield and there burnt to ashes, together with three other persons, for the same cause, in the presence of the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Bedford, Sir Thomas Wriothesley, the Lord Mayor, and a vast concourse of people.” Religious bigotry, alas, is still with us, but men have saner notions to-day as to the value of mere religious opinions, and poor Anne had the misfortune to live in a ruder age than ours. But her sufferings are not forgotten; religious tyranny has lost the power to send to the rack and the stake, and to her, and all who suffered, be due honour given.

Once more the curtain falls on tragedy, and on its rise we see the Tower decked out for revelry. In 1546 a “great banquet” was given in honour of the peace between France and England, and the French High Admiral, the Bishop of Evreux, and others came on embassy to England, and were welcomed, amid much rejoicing, to the feast. For a space the Tower remembered there was laughter in life as well as tears. However, it rejoiced with difficulty, and very soon had returned to gloomy dignity and sadness. On paltry evidence the Duke of Norfolk, who had led to victory at{57}

Image unavailable: THE COUNCIL CHAMBER IN THE KING’S HOUSE WHERE GUY FAWKES AND FATHER GERARD WERE TRIED
THE COUNCIL CHAMBER IN THE KING’S HOUSE WHERE GUY FAWKES AND FATHER GERARD WERE TRIED

Flodden Field, and was now seventy-four years of age, was, with the Earl of Surrey, imprisoned in the Tower. Surrey, tried by jury in January 1547, on the 19th of the month was led out of the Tower gate to execution on Tower Hill. Thus was sent to death England’s first writer of blank verse and one of her most excellent poets. “Surrey’s instinct for prosody was phenomenal,” says Mr. Edmund Gosse, and “he at once transplanted blank verse from a soil in which it could never flourish [it had recently been invented in Italy], to one in which it would take root and spread in full luxuriance.” Yet the sweet singer who lit the torch that was handed on to Shakespeare was brought to the block with the tyrant and the malefactor. Norfolk would have shared a like fate, had not the King himself died a few hours before the time appointed for the Duke’s removal to Tower Hill. He was set free when Mary came to reign, and died in his own home in 1554 at the good old age of eighty-one.

Young Edward VI. was brought up to the Tower with great ceremony, and began his reign when but a boy of ten. In the Tower he was made a knight, and rejoicings in anticipation of his coronation made the old walls ring again to gladness. The State procession from the Tower to{58} the Abbey was conceived and carried through in a spirit of regal magnificence, and from Eastcheap to Westminster the streets were bedecked in a manner expressive of the joy of the people that Henry’s reign of terror had ended. The boy King had not long been on the throne, when, under the guidance of Protector Somerset, in whose hands was all the power of an actual ruler, bloodshed began afresh. Thomas, Lord Seymour, brother of Somerset and uncle of the King, was immured in the Tower, and, accused of ambitious practices, beheaded on Tower Hill on March 20, 1549. This act brought down the rage of the populace upon Somerset, who was already unpopular by reason of his seizure of Church property. By his ill-gotten gains he had built the magnificent Somerset House, and in order to clear the ground for it he had demolished a church and scattered the human remains found there—an act of desecration that the citizens regarded as a crime. The Earl of Warwick headed the opposition, seized the Tower, and the Protector was lodged in the Beauchamp Tower. Later, however, he was pardoned, and the young King records in his diary that “My Lorde Somerset was delivered of his bondes and came to Court.” But the feud soon came to a head again,{59} and in 1551 Somerset was shut up in the Tower once more, and his wife with him, on a charge of high treason. He was taken, by water, to his trial at Westminster Hall, where he was “acquitted of high treason,” but condemned “of treason feloniouse and adjudged to be hanged.” The King, who appears to have written a full account of events in his diary, notes that “he departed without the axe of the Tower. The people knowing not the matter shrieked half-a-dozen times so loude that from the halle dore it was heard at Charing Crosse plainely, and rumours went that he was quitte of all.” But, far from being “quitte of all” he was conveyed back to the Tower, and while some maintained that he was to be set at liberty, others with equal heat asserted that he was to die speedily. The dispute was set at rest by his execution on Tower Hill, “at eight of ye clok in the morning.” The boy Edward seems to have had some of the callousness of his father in his nature, for he signed the death warrants of both his uncles with calmness, and in his commentary on their executions he betrays no emotion whatever, taking it all as very commonplace happening. “The Duke of Somerset had his head cut off upon Touer Hill” is the entry in the royal manuscript book. At the time of the{60} Protector’s committal to the Tower there came with him, as prisoners, his supporters the Earl of Arundel, Lords Grey and Paget; also Sir Thomas Arundel, Sir Ralph Vane, Sir Miles Partridge and Sir Michael Stanhope—these latter being executed. Edward’s short reign of six years had seen as many noble lives sacrificed as any six years of his father’s reign had seen, and with the Queen who succeeded him the tale of bloodshed was not less full of sudden tragedy.

Mary Tudor was preceded by the nine-days’ “Queen,” Lady Jane Grey, who had been named his successor by the dying Edward, at the instigation of the Duke of Northumberland. Lady Jane had been wedded to Northumberland’s fourth son, Lord Guildford Dudley; she was only sixteen years old; she began and ended her “reign” in the Tower, to which she was conveyed by her father-in-law, who was keeping Edward’s death secret until his plans were complete. But Mary had been proclaimed without the Tower if Lady Jane had been proclaimed within. The weaker was pitted against the stronger, and Northumberland, whom we hear of at Cambridge trying to go over to the side of the stronger by shouting “God save Queen Mary!” in the public highway, was arrested in spite of his{61} proper sentiments and was brought prisoner to London and lodged within the Tower, where only a few weeks before he had been in command. He suffered on August 22. In the September sunshine Lady Jane was allowed to walk in the garden attached to the Lieutenant’s house, “and on the hill,” and to look out upon the river and the roofs of the city from the walk behind the battlements which connects the Beauchamp and Bell Towers. In the Beauchamp her husband was held in bondage, and there he carved the word “Jane” on the wall, where it is to be seen to this day. In October Mary was crowned, and in November a sad procession wended its way up Tower Hill, through Tower Street and Eastcheap, to the Guildhall. At the head walked the Chief Warder, carrying the axe; following, came Archbishop Cranmer, Lord Guildford Dudley, and Lady Jane Grey. At their trial they pleaded guilty to high treason, were sentenced, and returned to the Tower, the Warder’s axe showing, by the direction in which the blade pointed, what their doom was to be. To her father Lady Jane wrote, from her prison-house: “My deare father, if I may, without offence, rejoyce in my own mishaps, herein I may account myselfe blessed that washing my hands{62} with the innocence of my fact, my guiltless bloud may cry before the Lord, Mercy to the innocent!... I have opened unto you the state wherein I presently stand, my death at hand, although to you perhaps it may seem wofull yet to me there is nothing that can bee more welcome than from this vale of misery to aspire, and that having thrown off all joy and pleasure, with Christ my Saviour, in whose steadfast faith (if it may be lawfull for the daughter so to write to her father) the Lord that hath hitherto strengthened you, soe continue to keepe you, that at the last we may meete in heaven with the Father, Sonne, and Holy Ghost.—I am, your most obedient daughter till death, Jane Dudley.” It is possible that Queen Mary might have spared the life of this sweet and gentle maid, happier in her books and her devotions than in the intrigues of State, but a rising of the men of Kent, under Wyatt, who demanded the “custody of the Tower and the Queen within it,” brought matters to a crisis. Wyatt appeared on the Southwark bank of the Thames and was fired upon from Tower walls. This is the last time in its annals that the fortress was attacked, and that it was called upon to repel an enemy. Wyatt, captured at Temple Bar after a night march from{63} Kingston, where he had crossed the river, was soon in the Tower, and with him was led many a noble prisoner. All hope that Lady Jane would be spared had now gone. Her father was seized and brought to the Tower on February 10; her husband was seen by her on his way to death on Tower Hill on the morning of the 12th, and she looked out again upon his headless body, as it was brought back on a litter, very soon afterwards, and taken to the chapel. A contemporary chronicle describes the preparations made for her own death on that day: “There was a Scaffolde made upon the grene over against the White Tower for the saide Lady Jane to die upon.” She was led forth from her prison to the Green by Sir John Bridges, then Lieutenant, and mounted the scaffold with firm step. The hangman offered to help her to take off her gown. “She desyred him to let her alone, turning towards her two gentlewomen who helped her off therewith ... giving to her a fayre handkerchief to knytte about her eyes.... Then she sayd, ‘I pray you despatch me quickly.’ She tied the kercher about her eyes, then feeling for the block, saide, ‘What shal I do, where is it?’ One of the standers by guyding her thereunto, she layde her head downe upon the block, and stretched{64} forth her body, and said, ‘Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,’ and so she ended.” Fuller has said of this noble girl, “She had the birth of a Princess, the life of a saint, yet the death of a malefactor, for her parent’s offences, and she was longer a captive than a Queen in the Tower.” Her father and Wyatt, before many days had passed, were both beheaded on Tower Hill; many luckless ones who had taken part in the Kentish rising were put to death with every form of cruelty; and, shortly after these terrible days of bloodshed in London, Mary was married to Philip of Spain at Winchester.

Princess Elizabeth had, meanwhile, been brought to the Tower in custody, and was landed, on Palm Sunday, at Traitor’s Gate. She was closely guarded but was allowed to walk on the open passage-way, where Lady Jane Grey had paced up and down before her, which is now known as “Queen Elizabeth’s Walk.” Towards the middle of May, being set free of the Tower, she is said to have taken a meal in the London Tavern—at the corner of Mark Lane and Fenchurch Street—on her way to Woodstock. The pewter meat-dish and cover which she used are still preserved. The city churches rang joyous peals when it was known{65} she was out of Tower walls, and to those churches that gave her welcome she presented silken bell-ropes when Queen of England.

Queen Mary’s days were darkened again by busy work for the headsman, and by religious persecution. Thomas, second son of Lord Stafford, defeated in an attempt to capture Scarborough Castle, was brought to the block on Tower Hill, and a large band of prisoners was put in Tower dungeons. To make room for these, many of the captives already there were released. Mary died on November 17, 1558, and then began to dawn those “spacious times of great Elizabeth” when England moved to greater glory than she had ever known before.

Queen Elizabeth, on her accession, came again to the Tower, spending the time until the coronation within its walls, but she had too many memories of captivity there to retain much love for the prison which had now become her palace. Seated in a golden chariot, the new Queen, ablaze with jewels, passed on her way to Westminster through a city decked out in all manner of magnificence, and through a crowd shouting themselves hoarse with delight at her coming. The Tower appears in the records of Elizabeth’s{66} reign almost wholly as a State prison. An attempt was made to smooth out religious difficulties by committing a number of Church dignitaries to its keeping, among them the Archbishop of York, and Feckenham, Abbot of Westminster. Then came Lady Catherine Grey, Lady Jane’s sister, who had offended the Queen by marrying Lord Hertford in secret. Her husband, also, was soon afterwards a prisoner. He lay for over nine years in his cell, but was released at the end of that time, while Lady Hertford died in the Tower. The Countess of Lennox was imprisoned three times within the walls, “not for any treason, but for love matters.” Thomas Howard, son of the first Duke of Norfolk, was shut up here “for falling in love with the Countess,” and died in captivity. It is interesting to find that Cupid could forge Tower shackles as well as make a wedding ring, and that to enter his service without the Queen’s permission was almost a capital offence.

In 1562 a suspected conspiracy to set the Queen of Scots—ill-fated Mary—on the English throne was the cause of Arthur and Edmund de la Pole, great-grandchildren of the murdered Duke of Clarence, being put into the Beauchamp Tower, where, when we reach that portion of the buildings{67} on our rounds, we shall see their inscriptions on the walls. The brothers were fated never to leave their place of confinement alive. After fourteen years of respite, Tower Hill again claimed a victim, the Duke of Norfolk suffering there in June 1579. In the following year Roman Catholic prisoners were brought, one might say in droves, to Tower cells. Many of them were subjected to torture either by the rack, the “Scavenger’s Daughter,” the thumbscrew, or the boot. In 1581 Father Campion, a Jesuit, was hurried to death, and in 1583 we hear of one captive committing suicide in order to escape the awful fate of dismemberment that many of his fellow-prisoners had suffered. It seems as if the sanity of life, the sweet wholesomeness we associate with the Merrie England of Shakespeare’s time, had not pierced the solid crust of Tower tradition. To lay down a comedy of the great dramatist and take up contemporary records of the Tower is as if one had stepped out of the warm sunshine and fragrant air of mid-June into a dark, damp vault whose atmosphere stings with the chill of a November night.

Tower dungeons were becoming too crowded. Many a poor obscure captive was sent over to{68} France, perhaps to a harder lot, and the vacant places were filled by political offenders. Northumberland killed himself in the Tower; Arundel, made prisoner with him, died—from self-imposed privations, it is said—some months after. Sir John Perrot, Lord Deputy of Ireland, was charged with using some hasty words against the Queen, and that was considered sufficiently dire an offence for Lord Chancellor Hatton to have him brought to the Tower. But Elizabeth refused to sign the warrant for his execution. He died, in his captivity, after six months, of a broken heart. Of the imprisonment of Raleigh, and of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, something will be said when we come to examine those portions of the Tower with which their names are associated. With the death of Elizabeth the curtain falls on the last of the Tudors—a race of sovereigns who had used their faithful Tower well, as palace, fortress, prison, and secret place in which their enemies were put out of existence. Of many of the greater names of Elizabeth’s reign, Tower annals bear no record, but soldier, statesman, or ecclesiastic, having crossed the Queen’s humour, found it but a step from Court favour to Traitor’s Gate.

“In the grey hours of morning, March 24, 1603,{69} watch and ward was kept in London streets; and in all the neighbour counties men who had much at stake in time of crisis wove uncertain plans to meet the thousand chances that day might bring.... When day broke two horsemen were far on the northern road, each spurring to forestall the other at Holyrood with homage impatiently expected by the first ruler of the British Isles. At a more leisurely pace the Elizabethan statesmen were riding in from Richmond, where their mistress lay dead, to Whitehall Gate, where at ten in the morning they proclaimed King James I.... The Lords of the Council showed themselves agreed that there should be no revolution. The decision was silently endorsed by a grateful nation. In city and manor-house men laid aside their arms and breathed again.” In Mr. G. M. Trevelyan’s admirable England under the Stuarts, from which these words are taken, a delightful description is given of the state of England at the coming of the King of Scotland to the English throne, and the chapters might well be read in connection with any study of Tower history. For, to understand the happenings within the Tower, it is profitable to have some detailed knowledge of the state of society outside its walls.{70}

King James, after his progress “during a month of spring weather” from Edinburgh, came to the Tower and held his first Court there. The usual procession to the Abbey was abandoned owing to plague that lurked in city streets, and rejoicings within Tower walls were less lusty than usual, but the King rode in state from Tower Hill to Westminster two years later to open his first Parliament. It is interesting to read in Mr. Sidney Lee’s Life of Shakespeare that Shakespeare himself, with eight players of the King’s company of actors, walked “from the Tower of London to Westminster in the procession which accompanied the King in his formal entry into London.” There is no other positive record of the great dramatist and poet having visited the Tower. We can but conjecture that a building so indissolubly bound up with the nation’s history would offer no mute appeal to such a mind as his, and that he must have come, at times, to look upon the place where, down to his own day, so many tragic deeds had been done.

Early in James’s reign many eminent prisoners were brought to the Tower in connection with a plot, as the timid King thought, to place the Crown on the head of Lady Arabella Stuart, his first{71} cousin on the mother’s side. In May 1611 Lady Arabella had married young William Seymour. This event brought both bride and bridegroom into royal disfavour. The husband was shut up in the Tower, and the wife kept in captivity at Lambeth Palace. But this did not daunt them. Lady Arabella, on being taken north on the way to Durham, pleaded illness when scarcely out of sight of London. In disguise she escaped to Blackwall and took ship at Leigh-on-Sea, there to await her husband, who had succeeded in getting out of the Tower by dressing as a labourer and following out a cart laden with wood. From the wharf, Seymour sailed to Leigh, but found that the French vessel in which his wife had sought shelter had gone down the river some hours before. He managed to cross to Ostend, but Lady Arabella was caught in mid-channel and conveyed back to Tower walls, which she never left again. In her latter years she became insane, and, dying in 1615, was buried at midnight beside Mary Queen of Scots in the Abbey. Seymour allowed unmerited punishment to fall on his young wife, remained abroad until the storm was over, married again, and lived long enough to see the Restoration. The conspiracy of 1603 had been the cause of the{72} execution of George Brook, brother of Lord Cobham, and two priests went to death with him. Lord Cobham himself, and Lord Grey de Wilton, were brought to the steps of the scaffold not many days after, for participation in the same plot. Before the headsman had done his work a reprieve arrived, and they were sent back to their place of captivity.

In 1604 the Guy Fawkes conspiracy necessitated a fresh batch of captives being lodged in the Tower, and during our visit to the dungeons beneath the White Tower we shall learn something of their fate, and of the fate, also, of another prisoner of this period, Sir Thomas Overbury, poisoned in the Bloody Tower. Felton, the rogue responsible for the assassination of Buckingham, had bought the knife with which he did the deed on Tower Hill at a booth there. He was brought to the Tower on his arrest and confined until the day of his hanging at Tyburn. They were not always, however, political offences that filled the Tower cells at this period; a private quarrel was the cause of Lords Arundel and Spencer being given quarters in the prison, and Lord Audley was beheaded on Tower Hill in 1631 for committing crimes which were so revolting as to encourage the belief that he was insane.{73}

With Charles I.—who did not visit the Tower, as far as is known, during his life—the number of noble prisoners by no means grows less. In November 1640 the Earl of Strafford was put in the Tower and condemned to death after trial in Westminster Hall. The King was anxious to save him; the Tower was to be seized and Strafford set at liberty; the royal plans failed; Charles forsook his favourite even after having sworn that not a hair of his head should be injured. The prisoner could anticipate but one end. “Sweet Harte,” he wrote to his wife, “it is long since I writt to you, for I am here in such trouble as gives me little or noe respett.” Archbishop Laud had also been put in the prison-fortress, and as Strafford passed down the sloping pathway that leads from Tower Green to Traitor’s Gate, on his way to execution, Laud, from the window above the arch of Bloody Tower, gave his friend his blessing. The Earl was led out to Tower Hill and suffered death there on May 12, 1641. It is said that 200,000 people witnessed the event, and that it was celebrated by the lighting of bonfires at night. The Archbishop had been arrested at Lambeth Palace and brought to the Tower by the river. He remained for four years in his room in the Bloody Tower, and in his{74} diary describes the visit paid to him by Prynne, “who seeing me safe in bed, falls first to my pockets to rifle them” in the search for papers, which he found in plenty. “He bound up my papers, left two sentinels at my door, and went his way.” On March 10, 1643, Laud was brought to a trial in Westminster Hall which lasted twenty days. Because he had—so the charge was worded—“attempted to subvert religion and the fundamental laws of the realm,” he was condemned, and on Tower Hill, on January 10, 1645, when seventy-two years of age, beheaded. He was buried, as we shall see in a later chapter, in the church of Allhallows Barking, near by. Readers of John Inglesant will remember the vivid description given in that book of these days in the reign of the first Charles, and in the moving picture of the life of the time Laud played no inconsiderable part. “Laud,” says Bishop Collins in his exhaustive Laud Commemoration volume, “deserves to be commemorated as among other things, a true forerunner of social leaders of our own day. To him, at any rate, a man is a man, and no man can be more; the great, the rich, the educated, had no hope of favour from him; rather he reserved his mercy for the poor, the ignorant, and the lowly....{75} We thank God for his noble care for the poor, and his large and generous aims for the English race; for his splendid example of diligent service in Church and State; for his work as the great promoter of learning of his age.” From such an authority these words are valuable and do much to set the balance right after the splenetic outbursts of Carlyle and many a lesser writer.

August, 1642, had seen the outbreak of the Civil War; Charles was at Nottingham; the Tower was in the keeping of Parliament, and its captives were those who adhered to the King. We find a Lord Mayor of London amongst them for publishing the King’s proclamation with regard to the militia, and gallant Cavaliers in plenty filled the cells. Sir John Hotham and his son, charged with attempting to give Hull over to the Royalists while it was being held for Parliament, were brought to the Tower in 1643, and to Tower Hill in the following year. Sir Alexander Carew, Governor of Plymouth, was beheaded shortly afterwards on a similar indictment. When the King had himself suffered death at the block, in Whitehall, the Tower contained many of his supporters, and amongst those who shared their royal master’s fate were the Earl of Holland, the{76} Duke of Hamilton, and Arthur, Lord Capel. A fine old knight of Wales, Sir John Owen, taken at the same time, and condemned to death, was, by Ireton’s intercession, pardoned, and he returned in peace to Wales. Worcester fight sent a batch of prisoners to the fortress, and in the same year (1651), a preacher at St. Lawrence Jewry, named Christopher Love, found to be in correspondence with the second Charles, was beheaded on Tower Hill. A picture of the scene on the Hill at the time of his death, engraved by a Dutchman, is one of the first drawings, after those of Strafford and Laud, of an execution on that famous spot. Lucy Barlow, mother of the Duke of Monmouth, who had been imprisoned in the Tower with her young son, was released by Cromwell after a long detention. Cromwell was, during the last years of the Protectorate, in constant fear of assassination. Miles Syndercombe, at one time in his confidence, made an attempt on his life in 1657. Having been sentenced to death, Syndercombe took fate in his own hands, terminated his life in the solitude of his cell, and the body was dragged at a horse’s tail from Tower Hill to Tyburn. Dr. John Hewitt, concerned in a rising in Kent in favour of the Restoration, was beheaded on Tower Hill{77} with another plotter, Sir Henry Slingsley. The frequent escapes from Tower walls during the Commonwealth period would lead to the belief that the place was not guarded with the customary rigour when Cromwell was in power, but when he died the Tower became an important centre of attention. Colonel Fitz, then Lieutenant, had, so it is said, arranged to admit three hundred men of the Parliamentary army. This little negotiation was not carried to its desired conclusion, and a fresh garrison was placed in the fortress on discovery of the plot. But unrest was evident within the walls; the lack of agreement of those in charge was followed by the seizure of the Tower by General Monk in the name of Charles II. He released numbers of Cromwellian prisoners and placed a strong garrison there under Major Nicholson. During the months that passed before the return of Charles, the Tower held many important prisoners. In 1660 Colonel John Lambert was made captive for opposing Monk’s scheme for the Restoration. Pepys, who comes upon the scene to illumine the time with his detailed accounts of happenings grave and gay, gives, “as related by Rugge,” an account of Lambert’s escape. At eight of the clock at night, it appears, he slid{78} down, by a rope tied fast to his window, and was awaited by men ready to take him off by the river. “She who made the bed being privy to his escape, that night, to blind the warder when he came to lock the chamber door, went to bed, and possessed Colonel Lambert’s place and put on his night-cap.” This interesting female was duly discovered in the morning, after having deluded the jailer by replying in a manly voice to his “good-night” the evening before, and was herself made captive for her temerity. Lambert, who had succeeded in getting to Warwickshire, was recaptured and subsequently banished.

When Charles II. came to the throne the early years of his rule were occupied in punishing, with merciless severity, all who had in any way been aiders or abettors of those responsible for his father’s tragic death. In the Restoration year the Marquis of Argyll, afterwards executed in Edinburgh, was a Tower prisoner. Poor Sir Harry Vane, not in any way convicted of complicity with the regicides, was brought to Tower Hill in 1662, and there suffered execution without a shadow of justice to cover the crime. Pepys rose “at four o’clock in the morning” of the day when Vane was to suffer. “About eleven o’clock we all went out to Tower{79} Hill, and there, over against the scaffold, made on purpose this day, saw Sir Harry Vane brought. A very great press of people.” The people of London at that time went out to see men brought to the block, just as their successors patronise a Lord Mayor’s show. Pepys had taken a window in Trinity Square, but was unable to see the actual fall of the axe because “the scaffold was so crowded that we could not see it done.” Charles II. was the last of the kings to sleep in the Tower the night before coronation, and he, in keeping with tradition, made a number of Knights of the Bath who would, after the ceremonies in St. John’s Chapel, ride with him in the procession to Westminster on the following day. Of course Pepys had secured a window “in Corne-hill, and there we had a good room to ourselves, with wine and good cake, and saw the show very well.... Glorious was the show with gold and silver, that we were not able to look at it, our eyes at last being so much overcome,” but the volatile diarist has sufficiently recovered the power of vision to observe that “both the King and Duke of York took notice of us as they saw us at the window.” This proved to be one of the “most glorious cavalcades” that ever left the Tower.{80}

The Great Fire of 1666 put the Tower in great danger. Had it reached the walls and set alight the stores of gunpowder lying within, we should have had very little of the work of the Conqueror and Henry III. left to us. The King himself had ordered the demolition of surrounding buildings, and by such means was the progress of the fire checked; Pepys, of course, was running about, and we hear of him “on one of the high places of the Tower” where he was able to look towards London Bridge and did see “an infinite great fire.” George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, began his series of five imprisonments in the Tower in 1658, during the Protectorate, and continued them well into Charles’s reign. But though constantly in trouble his offences were as constantly forgiven by the King, and he was never a captive very long. Of Colonel Blood’s escapade in 1671 something will be said in the third chapter, but the irrepressible Pepys was hunting for treasure—not Crown jewels—in 1662 when he was led to believe a sum of ￡7000 was “hid in the Tower.” He and assistants set to work to dig for this hidden gold, but “it raining and the work being done in the open garden” the search was abandoned. The treasure is yet undiscovered. The amazing

Image unavailable: GATEWAY OF BLOODY TOWER WITH ENTRANCE TO JEWEL HOUSE (WAKEFIELD TOWER)
GATEWAY OF BLOODY TOWER WITH ENTRANCE TO JEWEL HOUSE (WAKEFIELD TOWER)

{81}

Pepys was himself a captive in the Tower from May 1679 to February 1680, and seems to have lived fairly well there if the account of his expenses be any criterion. William Penn was also a captive about this time, and wrote No Cross, no Crown during his imprisonment. That singular invention of Titus Oates, called the Popish Plot, sent about forty men to the block, among them William, Lord Stafford, who was executed on Tower Hill on December 29, 1680. Three years later, the Rye House Plot brought Lord William Russell and Algernon Sidney to the Tower and execution, while Essex, who had also been lodged in the dungeons, and had, like Russell and Sidney, not actually been concerned in the assassination scheme planned at Rye House, was found in his prison with his throat cut.

James II. omitted the procession from Tower to Westminster, and it has never since been observed as a necessary prelude to a king’s coronation. There is no likelihood of the custom ever being revived now that the Tower has fallen from its high estate as a royal residence. The young son of Lucy Walters, who had lived in the Tower, as we have seen, as a boy, now returned as the defeated Duke of Monmouth,{82} beloved of the people for his handsome face, but unstable in character. He was beheaded in 1685, on Tower Hill, having been led there with difficulty through the dense crowd of citizens gathered to see him die, and to cheer him on the sad way up to the top of the hill and the scaffold. A contemporary engraving shows the excited populace packed closely together in solid ranks. Jack Ketch, the headsman, was almost torn limb from limb by the infuriated mob when he had made four ineffectual strokes on the neck of the victim and had severed the head with the fifth. The Seven Bishops came to the Martin Tower in 1688, and Judge Jeffreys, of infamous record, died in the Bloody Tower—what was the fate that lodged him in a place so appropriately named?—in 1689. King James had fled the country, and without bloodshed the great Revolution of 1688 was brought about.

Sir William Fenwick, who had been found guilty of high treason, was the only victim brought to Tower Hill during the time of William and Mary, but there were many prisoners of State in the Tower, partisans, for the most part, of the Stuarts. Charles, Lord Mohun, was made a prisoner within the walls in this reign, not for{83} “adhering to their Majesties’ enemies” but for having killed a celebrated comedian, in a quarrel about a famous actress. In 1695 Sir Christopher Wren examined the Beauchamp and Bloody Towers, “to report what it would cost to repaire and putt them in a condition” to hold more prisoners. The Tower capacities, it is evident, were being tested to the utmost limit.

Queen Anne had some French prisoners of war immured in the Tower soon after her accession, and, in 1712, Sir Robert Walpole was nominally a captive there. I say nominally, because his apartment during his confinement from February to July was crowded by fashionable visitors whose carriages blocked the gateway at the foot of Tower Hill. We are indeed in modern times when captivity in the old fortress-prison was treated as a society function; Walpole’s rooms were, after his release, occupied—I used this milder term, as he could not, in the strict sense, be called a captive—by the Earl of Lansdowne, author of that unpresentable comedy, The Old Gallant.

With the House of Hanover the Tower records take a graver turn. Under George I. the rebellion of 1715 brought young Derwentwater, taken prisoner at Preston, to the Tower. Lord Kenmure{84} was captured at the same time, with other Jacobite Lords, and was brought, with Derwentwater, to Tower Hill, and there, together, they were executed. Kenmure was put to death first, and all marks of his tragic end having been removed from the scaffold, Derwentwater was brought out of the house on Tower Hill (where Catherine House now stands), to suffer on the same block. The crowd in Trinity Square had been disappointed of a third victim, for Lord Nithsdale, as we shall see later, managed to escape from the Tower on the evening before. In 1722 the Jacobites plotted to seize the Tower; their plan failed; they were made prisoners there instead, and lay in the dungeons for several months. We have passed through the period of The Black Dwarf and come to the days of Waverley and the romantic “Forty-five.” In 1744 three men of a Highland regiment, which had mutinied on being ordered to Flanders after being promised that foreign service should not be required, were shot on Tower Green; others were sent to the plantations. This roused great resentment in Scotland, and prepared the way for the coming of Prince Charles Edward, who landed on the Island of Eriskay in July 1745. This young hero of incomparable song and story was, to quote{85} Andrew Lang, “the last of a princely lineage whose annals are a world’s wonder for pity, and crime, and sorrow,” and Prince Charlie “has excelled them all in his share of the confessed yet mysterious charm of his House.” After Culloden a sad harvest was reaped on Tower Hill, and we shall hear more of the last of the Jacobites, who perished at the block for their loyalty, when we visit the scene of their sufferings.

A few political prisoners in George III.’s reign; the committal of Arthur O’Connor, one of the “United Irishmen,” in 1798; the imprisonment of Sir Francis Burdett in 1810; and the placing there of the Cato Street conspirators in 1820, brings our list of captives to a close.

In Queen Victoria’s time, on October 30, 1841, a fire occurred within the Inner Ward of the Tower, which threatened at one time during its fury to make sad havoc of surrounding buildings. The storehouse of arms which stood where the barracks are now placed, to the east of St. Peter’s Church, was gutted, and the smoke and flames were blown over towards the White Tower. Fortunately, the store alone was destroyed, and it was reported to have been ugly enough to deserve its fate. The Tower’s last trial came upon it, unawares,{86} in January 24, 1885, when the “Fenians” laid an infernal machine in the Banqueting Room of the White Tower. The explosion that followed did considerable damage to the exhibits in the building, and many visitors were injured, but the White Tower itself, secure in its rock-like strength, was in no way the worse for what might, in more modern buildings, have rent the walls asunder.