by Frank Brazell
“The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.”
– William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Early in my academic career, I became fascinated with the person of William the Conqueror and the events of the Norman Conquest. My early interest colored my views not only of the Norman Conquest but also of the Tower of London, the castle founded by the Conqueror shortly after his ascension to the English throne. I viewed such events as progress, rather than domination as Anglo-Saxons fell beneath the yoke of a continental power. But preparing to lead Manna University’s first-ever study tour to London and Southeast England, combined with concurrent academic pursuits of a more personal nature, led me to a major perspective shift. The Norman Conquest wasn’t a progressive event, but one of conquest (the name should have tipped me off) and even of regression, as some scholars and students have argued.
We arrived at the Tower of London at the beginning of our first full day in England, still a little jet-lagged and acclimating to the Tube, looking right when crossing the street and eating baked beans with breakfast. Coming out of the Tower Hill Underground station, I was shell-shocked most romantically as I first set eyes upon the Tower of London, with its central keep built by the Conqueror nearly one thousand years ago. What a doofus I was. I was overawed, much as eleventh-century Anglo-Saxons would have been, by the size and magnificence of the structure. Yet this was no Westminster Cathedral. There were no statues of saints, nor any gold-gilt arches. This was a building designed with one purpose in mind: To dominate.
Even as we walked beneath the archway into the outer yards, I was still starry-eyed. Our local guide began to discuss the symbolic 21st-century practices of the Tower, the duties of the Beefeaters, and other “polite” facts about the structure into which we had just passed. We made our way counterclockwise around the complex, the original square, Norman, White Tower on our left. The weather that day was unseasonably pleasant: sunny and cool, but not cold. I was still awed by the magnificent structure as we “queued” for the Crown Jewels, where our guide left us and where our cameras were hastily shoved into bags.
The scenario was still gilded with beauty and magnificence as we reviewed the crowns and sapphires, diamonds and diadems, and even ceremonial maces attesting to Britain’s once globe-spanning empire. Though I feel a bit deceived by the setup proposed by the BBC’s “Sherlock”, I have to say that getting to see the regalia used by the royal family over the past few centuries was as interesting as it was fun. Having to walk through steel vault doors, and wondering what would happen in the event someone was actually dumb enough to try to steal the jewels, I maintained my state of awed bliss.
Regathering within the inner walls, we resumed our tour, where several members of our group were entertained by a hungry squirrel who nearly crawled up the trouser-leg (pants mean something different in the UK) of our local guide. All was well.
And then we approached the memorial pillow. Standing on the site of the Tudor Era scaffold was a monument, whose best-intentioned glass pillow ended up reminding everyone that at least noble heads had somewhere soft to land, our local guide regaled us with tales of lords and ladies, of medieval mirth, and of countless unpleasant beheadings.
The illusion began to shatter. It only got worse from there.
Heading down the hill towards our entrance, we were reminded of Richard III, the Yorkist king who may or may not have (guess where my money is?) murdered his two pre-teen nephews to become king in the 15th century. We saw the castle ravens, whose presence at the castle ensures its continued survival (although one popped off to a pub some years ago for a little break), and proceeded to an exhibit on torture. There, things got grisly, as we discussed “the rack” and “the scavenger’s daughter”.
We were able to continue at our own pace after that, but the damage to our psyches was done. It wasn’t until the end of the tour, however, that things really came into perspective for me. I was discussing the highlights of the trip with one of our students, and she remarked how the Tower had such a bloody history. At that moment, I had a change of opinion; the place that I’d once thought of as symbolic of the political changes that occurred in the 11th century suddenly became much more real. It was a place where so many people met their end, many of them unjustly. It was no Canterbury, no Windsor, no Westminster. Here was a place that in its foundation stones was designed for two things: to oppress and to intimidate. I can’t shake the horror of it.
I’ve had some time to recover and to contemplate, and still, I can’t see the Tower in the same light as I first did all those years ago, or as I did in the first minutes of my entering. I imagine it at night. I imagine the beautiful stone walls obscured by shadow, the pain felt by so many reverberating off their surface. I didn’t change, but my perception of that place certainly did.
This post began with a quote from Julius Caesar. It’s fitting when describing a place that fulfilled its evil purpose. During the 17th century, workers found a box bearing two skeletons, presumably the two princes murdered by Richard III nearly two hundred years before. They now reside in Westminster Abbey, mere feet from Queen Elizabeth I. Yet none of their works are remembered.
Nor, from the best I could tell, was there any redemptive history present at the Tower. The Crown Jewels are pretty but don’t compensate for the amount of evil done within the walls of that castle, situated along the Thames. With this in mind, I advise you, should you ever have the chance to look upon its stones, that you look past the veneer, past the Beefeaters, past the Jewels and the menagerie and the fluttering Union Jack. See the Tower for what it was… and thank God that you can leave.
