My feet guide me along the cobbles and towards the gates of the Tower of London. I seem to be moving there as if by some other force than my own desire to walk there. I do not want to go there and I do not want to witness what will happen but I can no more stop myself than reach up and touch the moon. Mother desired to prevent me going; Alice implored me not to go but at least I am being honest this time and they know my intention.
The tower looks cold and bleak on a wintry morning where little light brightens the grey towers and walls. An overcast sky spreads out above a chill, slightly windy morning but I"m wrapped up well against the elements. Unlike my last visit here with Rob, to see the last of the Baron Sudeley, there are no raucous, shouting mobs, uttering oaths and swilling ale.
