A bomb reached the room where two kings had already fallen
The White Tower, the Norman keep William the Conqueror began in the early 1080s at the Tower of London, has held nearly nine centuries of history: kings deposed, prisoners escaping, and, on 17 July 1974, an IRA-suspected bomb exploding in its mortar room among crowds of tourists, killing one visitor and injuring forty-one.
A bomb tore through a Norman keep full of tourists
You are standing inside the White Tower, the great Norman keep William the Conqueror raised in the early 1080s to press his new rule onto London — walls fifteen feet thick at the base, built to be seen for miles and never taken. It has mostly succeeded. In June 1460, during the eight metres), Yorkist guns and Lancastrian defenders traded fire across these walls for weeks before the garrison surrendered; the keep held, as it always has.
Just to the south, through what is now the chapel door, sits St John the Evangelist — consecrated in 1080, the oldest complete Norman chapel surviving in England, its plain round arches unchanged by eight centuries of the building growing up around it. Kings prayed here before battle and before coronations; queens were held nearby awaiting worse.
That violence is not medieval. On a July afternoon in 1974, with the Tower crowded with tourists, an IRA device detonated inside the White Tower itself, tearing through a space thick with families and school groups. One woman died in the blast; a dozen of the injured were children. The room reopened, restored, and gives almost no outward sign now of what happened within its stone.
Beneath all of it — keep, chapel, moat, and the Coldharbour Gate whose foundations still break the grass nearby — lies London clay, the same soft Eocene bed the Romans and Normans both built on because it could be dug, drained, and trusted to hold a wall.
Kings, ministers and queens fell inside these walls
The White Tower's second-floor council chamber has hosted two of the darkest political acts under its roof. In 1399, Richard II was brought here and made to sign away his crown, ending a reign at a table inside the same stone rooms tourists now file past with audio guides. Less than a century later, in 1483, the same chamber saw Lord Hastings summarily condemned to death by Richard III — arrested at a council meeting and beheaded within hours, no trial beyond the king's word.
That same year, two boys — Edward V and his brother Richard, Duke of York — disappeared from the Tower's rooms, most likely within the White Tower or the tower later nicknamed for them. Their fate was never confirmed in their lifetimes; bones found in 1674 during building work were reburied at Westminster Abbey as theirs, though the identification has never been beyond dispute. It remains one of the coldest cases in English history, argued over for five hundred years without resolution.
A short walk south, on the patch of ground now known as Tower Green, three queens went to the block: Anne Boleyn in 1536, Catherine Howard in 1542, and Lady Jane Grey — seventeen years old and queen for nine days — in 1554. Thomas More died there in 1535 for refusing to recognise Henry VIII's authority over the Church, and Thomas Cromwell, the king's own chief minister, followed him to the same spot five years later on charges historians generally regard as invented. Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, once Elizabeth I's favourite, was beheaded there in 1601 after a failed uprising. All except More and Essex were buried afterward in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, close enough that the ground under its floor and the ground just outside it has since given up more than royal names: excavations between 2019 and 2025 uncovered medieval burials near the chapel, among them plague victims interred in haste during outbreaks that swept the Tower's own community along with the city beyond its walls.
Guards and prisoners tell quieter, stranger stories too. George, Duke of Clarence, held in the Bowyer Tower in 1477–78, died in custody under circumstances never fully explained; the enduring tale — told as legend, not established fact — has him drowned in a butt of malmsey wine. Centuries earlier, in 1101, the Tower's first recorded prisoner, Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, escaped through a White Tower window on a rope smuggled to him inside a wine cask, an escape so audacious it reads like invention and is not. The last person shot at the Tower was Josef Jakobs, a German spy executed by firing squad in 1941, not within these walls but at the rifle range elsewhere on the grounds — the chair in which he sat is kept upstairs in the White Tower itself.
An execution ground stood on the hill nearby
A short walk northeast, the sixty-four metres marks where the Tower Green scaffold is believed to have stood, though Queen Victoria's own inquiry into the exact spot could not settle it with certainty. Further out, Trinity Square Gardens on Tower Hill was the public execution ground for centuries — condemned traitors of higher profile than those inside the walls died there before jeering crowds, from the fourteenth century into the mid-eighteenth. Two Commonwealth war memorials now stand nearby, the Mercantile Marine Memorial and the Merchant Seamen's Memorial, honouring civilian sailors lost at sea in both World Wars, and the one hundred and forty-nine metres marks a small lost gateway where the old London Wall met the Tower's moat.
A Roman wall became the foundation for a fortress
Fragments of the Roman wall that once enclosed Londinium survive in patches across the surrounding half-mile — at Tower Hill, along Vine Street, and beneath buildings on Crutched Friars and Cooper's Row. Built around 200 AD to defend a garrisoned port town, it was later patched and heightened through the medieval period, and the Tower itself was raised hard against its eastern corner, using the old defence as a foundation for the new. Further west, Roman riverside structures survive at Billingsgate — a bath house and domestic remains — and the London Roman basilica once stood near what is now Leadenhall, marking the civic heart of the Roman city this fortress eventually eclipsed.
All of it, wall and keep and street, rests on London clay laid down some 56 to 34 million years ago in a shallow subtropical sea — soft enough to dig, stable enough to build eleven centuries of fortification on, and the same bed that later carried the city's sewers, its Underground tunnels, and the Tower Subway dug beneath the Thames in 1869 a short distance downstream.
Every person, building and event in this story opens into its own dig in the app — and it will dig the ground you are standing on instead, wherever that is.