On the left of the Nave inside Lincoln Cathedral, tucked beneath the broad arch of the north transept, lies a small tomb that most visitors miss entirely. It sits low to the ground, cordoned off not for significance but for simple health‑and‑safety reasons — a practical rope barrier in a building where most eyes are drawn upward. And who wouldn’t look up, in a cathedral of this scale? The vaulting commands attention; the space absorbs it. Some sit quietly in the Nave, lost in thought. Others remain at the west end, never passing through the controlled entrance. 

In the rhythm of movement through this majestic building, the tomb is almost invisible. Yet it holds significance far beyond its modest size — for Lincoln Cathedral, and for Newark Castle’s Gatehouse. 

a gentle reminder of why people look upwards…

In the 13th‑century choir sit the 14th‑century stalls, later restored in the Victorian age — a reminder that each generation leaves a footprint: modern in its day, modest in intent, now part of a legacy we take quiet joy in. 

The tomb itself

The tomb is clearly old. The central stone has the softened edges that come only from centuries of contact, cleaning, and slow environmental wear. What surrounds it, though, is Victorian: a crisp four‑sided Latin inscription framing the medieval core.

A beam of sunlight fell directly onto it as I passed — a clean shaft of light that stopped me mid‑stride. It felt as though the building itself had pointed it out.

A beam of sunlight seemed to guide me to this tomb - excuse my shadow.

The Inscription

The 19th‑century framing reads:

EPISCOPI ET HUIUS ECCLESIAE FVNDATORIS - A.S. MLXXIII - RESTITVTA A.S. MDCCCLXXVIII - DEINDE LINCOLNIENSIS - PRIMVM ARCHIEPISCOPVS TREVENSIS

In essence:

Of the bishop and founder of this church - In the year of salvation 1073 - Restored in the year of salvation 1878 - Later Bishop of Lincoln - Formerly Archbishop of Trier. (A Victorian belief now considered doubtful.)

No interpretation panel accompanies it — an oversight, and maybe an opportunity missed.

The Volunteer 

A volunteer guide approached, pleased that someone was paying attention to this often‑ignored tomb. They produced an ancient, well‑thumbed card explaining its nature and significance. Nothing on it was new, but I read it carefully. When I explained I was there specifically for the Newark Castle blog series, they were both aware and genuinely interested in the work underway. 

The Loneliness of the Tomb

I found myself wondering how many people, across nine centuries, had paused here with similar intent. I suspect very few in recent years, though I would be pleased to be wrong.

Either way, there I was — paying a small homage to someone who feels increasingly real as Newark Castle’s Gatehouse moves towards another life. As I bring the long story of the Gatehouse through these blogs, I cannot help but wonder whether Bishop Alexander ever considered its future. Of his three castles, Banbury has almost vanished, Sleaford survives as a compelling footprint on a green field, and Newark’s Gatehouse remains: intact, legible, and now on the cusp of restoration to something close to its original form.

In the 13th‑century cloisters, well beyond Alexander’s age, modest modern memorial stones lie set into the pavements — quieter by far than Alexander’s own footprint — marking those who have shaped the cathedral’s life. 

Conclusion

And the name on that modern Latin inscription matters: Bishop Alexander — Alexander the Magnificent. Builder of Newark Castle’s Gatehouse. Architect of the diocese’s fortified administrative network. A man whose decisions shaped the medieval town’s growth and strategic importance.

If the inscription is correct, this quiet, easily overlooked tomb marks the resting place of the bishop whose authority, ambition, and architectural vision gave Newark one of its defining landmarks.

This small tomb, half‑hidden under an arch, is therefore more than a curiosity. It is a reminder that the foundations of Newark’s story lie not only in stone walls and riverfront towers, but in the legacy of a single 12th‑century churchman whose influence still shapes the town’s identity — and whose Gatehouse is now, once again, coming back to life.

I told Bishop Alexander so. It sounds faintly absurd, but it felt appropriate to say it aloud. If he had known that his Gatehouse would still stand nine centuries later, he might have been amazed, perhaps dubious — but surely, quietly proud.