the city. With public gardens to the north, and busy
streets on the other three sides, the only public entrance is on the east,
where a gateway glowers down the length of the Royal Mile, once Edinburgh’s
main thoroughfare.’
Irene dragged Patrick up the
steeply curving Mound, before passing the ancient tenements that led to the
Esplanade in front of the castle. Two young soldiers stood sentinel, modern
reflections of the statues of Robert Bruce and William Wallace, the mediaeval
guardians of the realm who stared sightlessly over an international collection
of visitors.
‘Military. That’s not good,’
Patrick commented. He eyed the nearest soldier with distaste. The sentry stared
ahead, his pressed uniform and bayoneted SA80 rifle somehow out of place
against the dark stone of the castle.
‘He’s not wearing a kilt,’ Irene
said. ‘I wanted to see a soldier wearing a kilt.’ She stopped to take a
photograph before crossing the bridged moat and passing through the main
doorway. The castle closed in on them, wearing its history like a sombre
shroud. A squad of soldiers marched down the precipitous road from the castle’s
interior, their boots echoing on the granite setts as they exchanged jokes. A
sergeant winked to Irene, his back straight, eyes mobile.
‘Lots of military.’ Patrick
sounded gloomy.
‘Let’s get an idea of the place
first,’ Irene suggested, photographing the portcullis whose spikes threatened
from above. The walls rose before them, formidable as ancient cliffs, while
each doorway led into cavern-like rooms, shadowy, strong and enigmatic. Irene
thrilled at the dark blood of history as tourists exclaimed at the eighteenth century
cannon and stared over the battlements, eating hamburgers where once besieged
men despaired of their lives.
‘This is a place of stone,’ Irene
said, tapping her toe on a basaltic outcrop of rock. ‘Stone ground, stone
walls, stone floors and stone roofs.’ She shivered in the keen wind. ‘Maybe we
should find something else?’
‘Enough of this,’ Patrick shoved
past a crowd of people who listened to the tales woven by a green-uniformed
steward. ‘Come on Irene; let’s find the Crown Jewels.’
There was a courtyard in the heart
of the castle, with Scotland ’s National War Memorial on one
side and the much older Royal Apartments on the other. A slender central tower
thrust toward a sky of grey.
‘Here we go,’ Irene could not
contain her rising excitement as she squeezed through the entrance, immediately
aware of the aura of age.
Irene was unsure what she had
expected, but, refusing the sombre allure of the great hall, she moved straight
to the rooms in which the story of the Crown Jewels was told. Unobtrusive wardens
stood quietly in the rear, watching everybody and smiling as they answered the
occasional enquiry. Irene took copious notes from the cards. ‘These Honours are
old,’ she said quietly. ‘Older than the English crown.’ She pointed to the
words. ‘It says here that these are one of the oldest sets of crown jewellery
in Christendom.’
‘That’s cool.’ Patrick nodded
‘Where’s Christendom?’
‘The Christian west, you ass hole! Europe !’ Irene landed a playful punch on
his arm.
Patrick rubbed his arm. ‘Does it
say how valuable they are?’
‘No. But Pope Julius II gave the
sword to King James in 1507, and Pope Alexander gave him the sceptre in 1494.
That’s just two years after Columbus discovered America .’ Irene shook her head. ‘It says
that the crown was refashioned for King James V in 1540. That means it was made
from an even older crown.’ The mention of that king brought an image of her
ancestor hanging from a tree and she frowned. She must keep this impersonal,
but she wanted James Stuart’s crown.
‘Yes, but is it valuable?’
‘It’s made of Scottish gold and
Scottish pearls, with other precious stones and as much history as you can
get.’ Irene nodded. ‘Yes Patrick, these Honours are
streets on the other three sides, the only public entrance is on the east,
where a gateway glowers down the length of the Royal Mile, once Edinburgh’s
main thoroughfare.’
Irene dragged Patrick up the
steeply curving Mound, before passing the ancient tenements that led to the
Esplanade in front of the castle. Two young soldiers stood sentinel, modern
reflections of the statues of Robert Bruce and William Wallace, the mediaeval
guardians of the realm who stared sightlessly over an international collection
of visitors.
‘Military. That’s not good,’
Patrick commented. He eyed the nearest soldier with distaste. The sentry stared
ahead, his pressed uniform and bayoneted SA80 rifle somehow out of place
against the dark stone of the castle.
‘He’s not wearing a kilt,’ Irene
said. ‘I wanted to see a soldier wearing a kilt.’ She stopped to take a
photograph before crossing the bridged moat and passing through the main
doorway. The castle closed in on them, wearing its history like a sombre
shroud. A squad of soldiers marched down the precipitous road from the castle’s
interior, their boots echoing on the granite setts as they exchanged jokes. A
sergeant winked to Irene, his back straight, eyes mobile.
‘Lots of military.’ Patrick
sounded gloomy.
‘Let’s get an idea of the place
first,’ Irene suggested, photographing the portcullis whose spikes threatened
from above. The walls rose before them, formidable as ancient cliffs, while
each doorway led into cavern-like rooms, shadowy, strong and enigmatic. Irene
thrilled at the dark blood of history as tourists exclaimed at the eighteenth century
cannon and stared over the battlements, eating hamburgers where once besieged
men despaired of their lives.
‘This is a place of stone,’ Irene
said, tapping her toe on a basaltic outcrop of rock. ‘Stone ground, stone
walls, stone floors and stone roofs.’ She shivered in the keen wind. ‘Maybe we
should find something else?’
‘Enough of this,’ Patrick shoved
past a crowd of people who listened to the tales woven by a green-uniformed
steward. ‘Come on Irene; let’s find the Crown Jewels.’
There was a courtyard in the heart
of the castle, with Scotland ’s National War Memorial on one
side and the much older Royal Apartments on the other. A slender central tower
thrust toward a sky of grey.
‘Here we go,’ Irene could not
contain her rising excitement as she squeezed through the entrance, immediately
aware of the aura of age.
Irene was unsure what she had
expected, but, refusing the sombre allure of the great hall, she moved straight
to the rooms in which the story of the Crown Jewels was told. Unobtrusive wardens
stood quietly in the rear, watching everybody and smiling as they answered the
occasional enquiry. Irene took copious notes from the cards. ‘These Honours are
old,’ she said quietly. ‘Older than the English crown.’ She pointed to the
words. ‘It says here that these are one of the oldest sets of crown jewellery
in Christendom.’
‘That’s cool.’ Patrick nodded
‘Where’s Christendom?’
‘The Christian west, you ass hole! Europe !’ Irene landed a playful punch on
his arm.
Patrick rubbed his arm. ‘Does it
say how valuable they are?’
‘No. But Pope Julius II gave the
sword to King James in 1507, and Pope Alexander gave him the sceptre in 1494.
That’s just two years after Columbus discovered America .’ Irene shook her head. ‘It says
that the crown was refashioned for King James V in 1540. That means it was made
from an even older crown.’ The mention of that king brought an image of her
ancestor hanging from a tree and she frowned. She must keep this impersonal,
but she wanted James Stuart’s crown.
‘Yes, but is it valuable?’
‘It’s made of Scottish gold and
Scottish pearls, with other precious stones and as much history as you can
get.’ Irene nodded. ‘Yes Patrick, these Honours are