I was looking up at the White Tower, hoping and praying that Munin and Thor hadn’t found a way through the wooden panels and netting. I didn’t fancy the climb up the scaffold steps in the twilight on the hunt for them. It had been a long day and I was looking forward to getting home and putting my feet up.
Was that them up there? I couldn’t quite see.
It wouldn’t have been the first time ravens had ventured up the scaffolding, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last—the incident when I found myself dangling off the weathervane in pursuit of Munin was yet to come. I can well remember when I first started at the Tower, seeing one of the old assistants to the Ravenmaster swinging on the steel poles halfway up the Tower, on the hunt for one of the birds.
“All right?” I asked when he came down.
“Bloody ravens” is all he said in reply.
My instinct was telling me that the birds had found a way up and into the scaffolding. I concentrated, listening and watching. Nothing. If they were up there, they were in stealth mode, so I sat and waited.
* * *
It was no good. The rogue ravens were likely looking down at me sitting on the bench, laughing with one another. I would just have to flush them out. In the military we call this the clearance phase.
I made my way to the base of the White Tower and the temporary staircase that led to the roof. I took off my belt, my tunic, and my hat and placed them on a dusty workbench used for preparing the newly cut stone. And then I started my ascent up the steps that twisted and turned in a tight right-angled spiral all the way up the Tower. On each flight a wooden platform made of scaffold boards ran along the entire length of the Tower. I stopped at the first level and looked along it in the hopes that I would see or hear Munin and Thor. No sign of them.
Each flight of steps I climbed and each platform I checked took me nearer and nearer to the top, almost a hundred feet off the ground. I was about to make my last steps to the top platform when through a gap in the canvas hoarding I caught a glimpse of a dark wing and the unmistakable silhouette of a raven. Gotcha!
I had made contact with the “target” and my mission to bring them down was nearing completion. But I had no plan. Should I just race toward them, in the hope they would jump off and glide onto Tower Green one hundred feet below? Or should I sneak up on them both and attempt to catch them at the same time? If I just left them, maybe they would come down of their own accord? I decided to get a little closer.
I don’t have many regrets in my life. I joined the military for fun and adventure but also because I believed I was serving Queen and country, and I was very proud to do so for the duration of my career. And since I became a Yeoman Warder, there’s not a day that passes I’m not grateful: to me, it is the best job in the world. But things do go wrong, and with hindsight my presence up the White Tower, at dusk, on the hunt for two ravens was misjudged. To this day I wonder how I might have acted differently. But hindsight is a wonderful thing. What I think I learned is always to step back and consider my options more carefully, to slow down and think. If I’d simply waited a little longer, hunger would eventually have driven the ravens from their lookout position and back down to earth and everything would have been fine. I take full responsibility for the decision that I made at the time. I wasn’t thinking like a raven.
I blame myself.
Munin jumped first. I couldn’t see where she’d landed, but I knew she’d cleared the scaffolding and its hoardings and had reached Tower Green. She was safely down. And then Thor jumped—but Thor was a big bird, much bigger and heavier than Munin, and his wings had been trimmed just a few days before, which meant he couldn’t gain momentum. He had bravely hopped and climbed and fluttered his way up the Tower, but a hundred-foot drop was another matter entirely. It was way beyond him, and I watched in horror as he jumped and began to plummet.
He didn’t have a chance. Ravens are so intelligent. I’m sure Thor must have realized that he’d made a mistake. The dreadful thud as he hit the ground of the builder’s yard below is something I will never forget—but worse was the silence that followed. For a moment I stood absolutely frozen, listening, hoping to hear him croaking once more his cheery “Good morning.”
I raced down the scaffold steps and spotted him. He was on his back by the stonemasons’ bench, his wings spread out, his head tilted to one side. I knew it was too late. I scooped him up and held him close to my chest. His eyes were still open and he looked at me for one last time before his life ebbed away.
I am not a sentimental man and I have seen much worse in my military career, but I am not ashamed to admit that I shed a tear over Thor as he died in my arms that evening.
Ravenmaster Rocky Stones buried Raven Thor at 1755 hours on February 9, 2010, in a private burial. He then phoned Derrick Coyle, ex-Ravenmaster, who had cared for Thor for many years, to inform him of the sad loss. Colonel Dick Harrold, Deputy Governor to the Tower of London at the time, was informed the following morning of Thor’s untimely demise and the circumstances surrounding his death. He immediately ordered that a complete review be conducted of the scaffolding on the White Tower and that further measures be put in place so that no other ravens would attempt the climb there again. The lesson was learned—by the Tower, and by me. Thor’s death was one of the reasons I later changed our approach to feather trimming. As I explained, I now trim as little as possible, so that in the future a raven like Thor might stand a chance of surviving. His death was not in vain.
These days, if a raven dies unexpectedly at the Tower and I’m not sure of the cause of death, I take it to the vets at London Zoo for a postmortem. This allows us to rule out any possibility of a contagious illness that may have been passed on to any of the other ravens. (And it happens: in April 2010 we lost two ravens, Lizzie and Marley, from what we think was a viral infection, and it was only through our close observation and immediate action that we managed to save the other ravens from the same fate.)
If the cause of death is known to me, as in the sad case of Thor, it’s now my responsibility to ensure they are buried correctly within the grounds of the Tower. In the moat, by the Middle Drawbridge on the right-hand side as you exit the Tower, you will see a small black board with white letters painted on it. This is the Tower Ravens Memorial. The memorial board was erected by Henry Johns, Yeoman Quartermaster and keeper of the ravens for twenty-five years. It dates from 1956 and marks the deaths of all ravens who passed away at the Tower until 2006.
When I became Ravenmaster I decided not to continue updating the memorial. To me, what matters is the raven’s life, not its death. All of my energies have been directed at ensuring that the birds have the best possible quality of life during their time with us. As the good book says, let the dead bury the dead.
The ravens who have passed away since I was appointed Ravenmaster have all received a quiet, simple burial within the grounds of the Tower. No official ceremony, just me and the raven, a time for me to say a private farewell and to thank the raven for its service to the Tower.
There is a curious coda to the story of Thor. After his death it didn’t take long for the other ravens to realize Munin was now on her own and no longer a part of a dominant pair, so we moved her for her own protection away from the other ravens and put her in an enclosure next to Raven Gwylum.
Gwylum had arrived at the Tower in 1988 and at the time was one of our oldest ravens, age twenty-two, presented to the Tower by Mr. Jackson from the Welsh Mountain Zoo, Colwyn Bay, North Wales. He was a quiet, unassuming raven who kept himself to himself and was perfectly happy with his own company, a confirmed bachelor—until, that is, Munin came along.
Almost instantly, through the cages they showed signs of courtship. Whether it was for comfort after the loss of Thor we shall never know, but one thing is for sure: Munin did not hang around before finding someone else. Maybe she had always had an eye for Gwylum and was waiting for the right moment. Thor died in February. By March we’d placed Munin and Gwylum in the sam
e cage, where they showed signs of bonding, and by April we had returned them to the night box Munin had previously shared with Thor on Tower Green and they were released to continue life at the Tower as a newly bonded pair.
And then—unbelievably—history repeated itself.
On April 22, exactly a week after they’d been released, Munin took Gwylum with her to the top of the White Tower and wouldn’t come down. We thought it was safe to go up again and flush them out: Gwylum’s feathers had not recently been trimmed and we figured that both birds would be able to jump off and land safely without putting themselves in danger.
Once again I climbed the White Tower, and once again Munin leapt off and glided down to safety. I’ll never forget the sight of Gwylum up on the parapet, moments before his leap: he hesitated, twitching his head nervously from side to side. I could see that he was calculating his options. Fight or flight? And then as I approached he tensed, sprang up, and launched himself off the White Tower.
“Rocky, Rocky! Did you see him?” I shouted down.
“I certainly did,” Rocky replied, pointing toward the Thames. “He went thataway.”
And that was the last time we ever saw Gwylum.
Within two and a half months Munin had inadvertently sealed the fate of two of our male ravens. Hence her nickname, the Black Widow. It wasn’t until years later, in 2014, that she eventually found another, younger partner and bonded with Jubilee II. All I can do is wish him well.
25
THE GHOSTS OF MY LIFE
Some nights there are big events in the Tower. Corporate events. Clubs or societies visiting the Yeoman Warders Club. But not every night. Most nights it’s just the Ceremony of the Keys—the ceremonial locking of the gates of the Tower—at 2200 hours. And then we Yeoman Warders have the place pretty much to ourselves.
People often ask if I believe in ghosts. To which the honest answer is yes. And no. You may remember that when Scrooge is confronted with the ghost of his business partner Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol he says that he doesn’t believe that he’s a ghost: “You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you.” I think at least some of our famous Yeoman Warder tales of ghosts and ghoulies have a touch more of the gravy than the grave about them. They’re best taken with a large pinch of salt—and indeed a drop or two of whiskey, since they were most certainly concocted over a pint and a pie late at night in the Yeoman Warders Club. And yet …
I have to admit that there are some things about the Tower that one can’t explain. You know me, I am an entirely rational rufty-tufty ex–infantry soldier, but even now, after almost fifteen years as a Yeoman Warder, wandering the Tower at night, even I can’t help but half expect to meet Anne Boleyn or Sir Walter Raleigh or the two princes, or even just a headless soldier patrolling the battlements. Are there really such things as ghosts here, and do they stalk the ancient cobbles and passageways in the dead of night? I doubt it. But are there echoes of the past everywhere, shadows that beckon and call out to us, if only we’d pause and listen? Undoubtedly. The Tower is a place of memories and imaginings, an ancient site of banqueting and merrymaking, of coronations and carousing, of torture and of horror, and when the sun goes down and the shadows are low and distorted beyond all recognition by these cold stone walls, I would defy you not to begin to conjure up those memories and imaginings of a bloody and glorious past.
There have of course been many reported ghostly sightings here. One of our ex–Yeoman Warders, Geoffrey “Bud” Abbott, wrote a whole book about them. Bud was a great character and storyteller, and lots of us Yeoman Warders rely to this day on his accounts of ghouls and apparitions in Ghosts of the Tower of London. They’re good stories. But because of the rather peculiar nature of my job, spending so much time wandering around the Tower alone late at night and early in the morning, I have experienced some uncanny goings-on firsthand.
I don’t usually like to talk about these things, because frankly it can sound a bit crazy. Nonetheless, it’s another necessary aspect of the Ravenmaster’s work: coping with the ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. Or at least the prospect of ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. In Bud’s words, “A candle flame is almost invisible in the sunlight—but it is still there. So it is with the Ghosts of the Tower of London—and if you look where the shadows linger, in the corners, round the stairs—you may see them too.”
Our most famous resident ghost is Anne Boleyn. She’s been spotted many times near the Queen’s House and the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula on the anniversary of her death. I can remember when we first arrived at the Tower and my wife and I were living in a little flat on Tower Green. I awoke one early morning and felt compelled to look out of our bedroom window, only to see a distant shadow moving along the pathway that leads to the Chapel. Was it her? I don’t know. It was certainly someone or something. Walter Raleigh was spotted as recently as 1976 by the wife of a Yeoman Warder while she was taking a bath. An unseen and terrifying presence is said to inhabit the Salt Tower after dark, and the ghost of a giant bear used to appear from inside the Martin Tower in the nineteenth century, apparently, though I don’t know where he’s got to recently. I can’t verify or deny the truth of any of these sightings, but I can report on what I’ve seen and heard with my own eyes and ears.
A perfectly normal morning, a few years back: up before the alarm, cup of tea, out of the house, up the old spiral steps from the Casemates and onto Tower Green. Even before I see them or hear them I can sense the ravens itching to spread their wings and shake off the night’s slumber. My radar’s on: I know if anyone else is about and exactly what’s happening.
The Tower clock was chiming from high above the entrance to the Jewel House. Six o’clock precisely, the sun low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobbled pathways that surround the Green. I walked across the grass, dodging the sprinklers, and made my way over to Merlina’s night box.
I could hear her calling out to me. I’m sure she can sense my imminent arrival, just as I can sense her.
I opened the cage door, wished her good morning, as I do every morning, and off she went. She never hangs around once I open up. If she ever does, it’s a good indication that something’s not right. That morning she jumped off her perch and went flapping straight out onto the cobbled path. Sometimes, when it’s pouring rain, she hesitates, as if to ask “Do I need an umbrella? What do you think?” But this morning, as usual, she unfolded her wings, shook them vigorously from side to side, dipped her head, raised her backside high in the air and proceeded to relieve herself right there in front of me. Her early morning ritual. Ravens, creatures of habit.
She hopped back onto the metal ladder, greeted me with a little bob of her head, half extended her wings, and gave out a loud belching croak. I returned the greeting. She then set off in the direction of her favorite holly tree next to the doctor’s house, ready to hunt for a mouse. Merlina is an excellent mouser. (Her method is to hang around a hole, waiting for the mice to appear. It’s easier that way. Mind you, I’ve also seen her take down a blue tit in full flight as it sped by her, so she’s no slow-coach when it comes to hunting.)
I left her to her mousing and went to the little entrance by the Queen’s House on Tower Green to get my broom and bucket in order to clear and fill the water bowls. It was a perfectly still morning. No one was around. I was completely alone. There was not a gust or a breeze. I walked a few feet toward the Green with my bucket and broom and the door to the entranceway suddenly slammed violently behind me, as if someone were furious or wanted to get my attention. I nearly leapt out of my skin. The door has never banged before or since, not once. I have no way of explaining why it happened.
Another story? Okay. Again, make of it what you will. And remember, at one time there may have been a strong motive for Yeoman Warders to invent
stories, in order to encourage the visiting public to tip them generously, but this practice is now quite rightly discouraged, so there’s no advantage to me whatsoever in concocting tales for you. I am simply reporting what I’ve seen.
One evening I was shepherding the ravens to bed. I unlocked the main enclosure door and went to round up Erin and Rocky. I could tell that they were keen to go to bed, but Erin has always had a habit of hesitating just before entering the enclosure, and as she did, I noticed a small girl sitting on the bench by the side of the enclosure, watching me closely.
She must have been about ten years old. No one was with her. She seemed to be on her own. She had mousy brown hair and was wearing normal modern clothes. I didn’t recognize her as one of the residents’ children and the Tower had long since shut, so she wasn’t likely to be some stranded visitor. She sat perfectly still, in total silence, watching me.
I’ve often felt a bit uncomfortable in this area, but I try not to dwell on the matter. Unsure quite what to say, I asked the girl politely if she could move because the next couple of ravens would be unwilling to enter the enclosure if she didn’t. She looked up at me and smiled slightly but still said nothing. I wondered perhaps if there was something wrong with her. Anyway, I had my job to do and I thought I’d deal with the ravens first, so I unlocked Munin and Jubilee’s enclosure, which takes just a moment—a simple turn of a key—and when I turned back I saw that the young girl had disappeared. It would have been impossible for her to have walked past me without my noticing, but she was gone. Vanished. I was so unnerved by her sudden disappearance that I went to look for her, searching the entire Inner Ward. I found nothing, and to this day, though I’ve asked all the residents, no one knows anything about that little girl.
On another occasion, I remember the sun was shining brightly on Tower Green and the execution site. It seemed to wash away all traces of the Tower’s bloody past. The compound was filled with the chatter of schoolchildren in their uniforms being led around by parents and teachers. I was on duty, enjoying the weather, watching Merlina playing with a stick. A girl broke away from her school group, came up to me, pointed toward the Beauchamp Tower, and told me there was a man in strange clothing walking around inside. She ran back to her school group. I thought no more of it—children’s imaginations!—until later in the day when I suddenly remembered that some years before my wife had sensed something similar in Beauchamp Tower.
The Ravenmaster Page 14