Patriot games - Tom Clancy [64]
The Tower Green was far too pleasant to be the site of executions. Even the signs to keep people off the grass said Please. Two sides were lined with Tudor-style (of course) houses, but the northern edge was the site where the scaffolding was erected for the high-society executions. Evans went through the procedure, which included having the executionee pay the headsman-in advance-in the hope that he'd do a proper job.
"The last woman to be executed here," Evans went on, "was Jane, Viscountess Rochford, 13 February, 1542."
"What did she do?" Cathy asked.
"What she didn't do, actually. She neglected to tell King Henry the Eighth that his fifth wife, Catherine Howard, was, uh, amorously engaged with someone other than her husband," Evans said delicately.
"That was a real historic moment," Jack chuckled. "That's the last time a woman was ever executed for keeping her mouth shut."
Cathy smiled at her husband. "Jack, how about I break your other arm?"
"And what would Sally say?"
"She'd understand," his wife assured him.
"Sergeant major, isn't it amazing how women stick together?"
"I did not survive thirty-one years as a professional soldier by being so foolish as to get involved in domestic disputes," Evans said sensibly.
I lose, Ryan told himself. The remainder of the tour lasted about twenty minutes. The Yeoman led them downhill past the White Tower, then left toward an area roped off from the public. A moment later Ryan and his wife found themselves in another of the reasons that men applied for the job.
The Yeoman Warders had their own little pub hidden away in the 14th-century stonework. Plaques from every regiment in the British Army-and probably gifts from many others-lined the walls. Evans handed them off to yet another man. Dan Murray reappeared, a glass in his hand.
"Jack, Cathy, this is Bob Hallston."
"You must be thirsty," the man said.
"You could talk me into a beer," Jack admitted.
"Cathy?"
"Something soft."
"You're sure?" Hallston asked.
"I'm not a temperance worker, I just don't drink when I'm pregnant," Cathy explained.
"Congratulations!" Hallston took two steps to the bar and returned with a glass of lager for Jack, and what looked like ginger ale for his wife. "To your health, and your baby's."
Cathy beamed. There was something about pregnant women, Jack thought. His wife wasn't just pretty anymore. She glowed. He wondered if it was only for him.
"I understand you're a doctor?"
"I'm an ophthalmic surgeon."
"And you teach history, sir?"
"That's right. I take it you work here, too."
"Correct. There are thirty-nine of us. We are the ceremonial guardians of the Sovereign. We have invited you here to thank you for doing our job, and to join us in a small ceremony that we do every night."
"Since 1240," Murray said.
"The year 1240?" Cathy asked.
"Yeah, it's not something they cooked up for the tourists. This is the real thing," Murray said. "Right, Bob?"
"Quite real. When we lock up for the night, this museum collection becomes the safest place in England."
"I'll buy that," Jack tossed off half his beer. "And if they get past those kids out there, the bad guys have you fellows to worry about."
"Yes." Hallston smiled. "One or two of us might remember our basic skills. I was in the original SAS, playing hare and hounds with Rommel in the Western Desert. Dreadful place, the desert. Left me with a permanent thirst."
They never lose it, Ryan thought. They never lose the look, not the real professionals. They get older, add a few pounds, mellow out a little, but beneath all that you can still see the discipline and the essential toughness that makes them different. And the pride, the understated confidence that comes from having done it all, and not having to talk about it very much, except among themselves. It never goes away.
"Do you have any Marines in here?"
"Two," Hallston said. "We try to keep them from holding hands."
"Right! Be nice, I used to be a Marine."
"No one's perfect,"