I'm an early morning, in the year 1671, shouts ring out from the Tower of London.

Murder, treason.

A pool of dark blood spreads across the stone floor.

Out of a doorway, staggers the figure of an old man clutching his side.

A large blue welt swells at his temple.

He's been struck with a mallet and stabbed with a sword.

But he doesn't let his wounds stop him.

He drags himself forward to warn the others.

He must protect the royal treasure at all costs.

Meanwhile, deep inside the Tower, a man who calls himself Colonel Blood

and his gang of ruffians are racing to dismantle a metal grate.

Behind its bars sits the biggest prize in all of England.

The crown jewels.

Blood is a man in his fifties with long wavy hair,

and eyebrows often caulked in a sardonic sneer.

He fidgets impatiently, as his men unscrew the cage.

Finally, they cast the grate aside.

Blood can't believe the sight that greets his eyes.

Treasures, sectors, orbs made of pure gold.

They're encrusted from top to bottom with diamonds and colorful gems.

Some as big as walnuts.

They glisten even in the Tower's dreary gloom,

...