bitter frosts that froze town and monastery stew ponds, covering fat carp as they lay beneath in darkness, barely moving their fins.
The town of Windsor was luckier than most, with many households able to afford coal, or enough wood to line a wall and keep the families warm. Work went on even in the coldest months though, as the frost deepened, there were soon starving men begging for Christmas alms on every street. With the autumn crops gathered and stored, there were still odd jobs repairing shutters and wooden shingles for those with the skill. Hundreds more drifted in for the royal feasts that would mark the birth of Christ, fourteen hundred and fifty-four years before. In the castle, banquets of two dozen courses were prepared in the knowledge that some of it would be handed out to the poor. It was a tradition around the royal residences, and the best spots on the streets close to the royal kitchens were all taken, though a bad night could reveal one or two frozen bodies in the gutter the following morning.
The gong-farmers, or cesspit men, took on a few laborers in search of work, preferring to dig out the shafts in the wealthier houses while the contents were firm with cold. Those men at least were warm as they descended with shovels, and rags wrapped around their faces, into the bowels of the earth. Some were always overcome with fumes and had to be pulled out on a rope. It was hard work, but a good pit man could earn a laborer’s weekly wage in a single day, and they guarded the right to the best streets from all those who might try to undercut them.
As Christmas came closer, the roads around the castle filled with those the royal family had invited for the twelve days of peace and celebration. It seemed Queen Margaret was determined not to let her husband’s illness spoil the festivities. Jugglers, magicians, and singers competed for coins in the inns, while every room in town had been booked long in advance, until even the stables were filled with snoring families. Acting troupes arrived with raucous fanfares from their own servants, coming into town in elaborate processions, all hoping to perform for the queen. Eclipsing even Easter and Whitsun, Christmas was the greatest festival of the year and Windsor’s busiest time.
With King Henry still lost in his dreaming, there was no public healing planned that Christmas, where those with illnesses would be allowed to come forward and touch his hand. The most desperate sufferers came even so, with nowhere else to turn. Lepers and cripples rang bells on the streets, gathering together for protection as one or two alone could be set upon and beaten by local men.
Those of noble blood rode past the shops and mummers performing for coins, heading for the comforts available in the castle itself. The Duke of York may have been ruling the country in London, yet he could not draw the king’s earls and dukes and barons to a Christmas celebration. The choice of guests in Windsor was the sole province of Queen Margaret and it was no accident that the invitations to forty-four noble houses omitted York, Salisbury, and half a dozen others linked to the Neville family. Margaret had considered sending one to Earl Warwick, the younger Richard Neville. She had met him during the siege of London, when Jack Cade brought an army into the city. Warwick had impressed her then, but York’s chancellor was his father and, with regret, she decided that his loyalties were beyond her influence.
One or two guests had sent their regrets, if they were too old or ill to make the journey. Yet over three days, thirty-eight lords and their retinues had come to Windsor, a show of enduring respect for the king that gave Margaret enormous satisfaction. She made a point of coming out to greet those whose support she needed most, honoring them publicly. It was no small thing that she did not make them come to her, and their pleasure showed in flushed cheeks and the proud smiles of their wives.
Derry
The town of Windsor was luckier than most, with many households able to afford coal, or enough wood to line a wall and keep the families warm. Work went on even in the coldest months though, as the frost deepened, there were soon starving men begging for Christmas alms on every street. With the autumn crops gathered and stored, there were still odd jobs repairing shutters and wooden shingles for those with the skill. Hundreds more drifted in for the royal feasts that would mark the birth of Christ, fourteen hundred and fifty-four years before. In the castle, banquets of two dozen courses were prepared in the knowledge that some of it would be handed out to the poor. It was a tradition around the royal residences, and the best spots on the streets close to the royal kitchens were all taken, though a bad night could reveal one or two frozen bodies in the gutter the following morning.
The gong-farmers, or cesspit men, took on a few laborers in search of work, preferring to dig out the shafts in the wealthier houses while the contents were firm with cold. Those men at least were warm as they descended with shovels, and rags wrapped around their faces, into the bowels of the earth. Some were always overcome with fumes and had to be pulled out on a rope. It was hard work, but a good pit man could earn a laborer’s weekly wage in a single day, and they guarded the right to the best streets from all those who might try to undercut them.
As Christmas came closer, the roads around the castle filled with those the royal family had invited for the twelve days of peace and celebration. It seemed Queen Margaret was determined not to let her husband’s illness spoil the festivities. Jugglers, magicians, and singers competed for coins in the inns, while every room in town had been booked long in advance, until even the stables were filled with snoring families. Acting troupes arrived with raucous fanfares from their own servants, coming into town in elaborate processions, all hoping to perform for the queen. Eclipsing even Easter and Whitsun, Christmas was the greatest festival of the year and Windsor’s busiest time.
With King Henry still lost in his dreaming, there was no public healing planned that Christmas, where those with illnesses would be allowed to come forward and touch his hand. The most desperate sufferers came even so, with nowhere else to turn. Lepers and cripples rang bells on the streets, gathering together for protection as one or two alone could be set upon and beaten by local men.
Those of noble blood rode past the shops and mummers performing for coins, heading for the comforts available in the castle itself. The Duke of York may have been ruling the country in London, yet he could not draw the king’s earls and dukes and barons to a Christmas celebration. The choice of guests in Windsor was the sole province of Queen Margaret and it was no accident that the invitations to forty-four noble houses omitted York, Salisbury, and half a dozen others linked to the Neville family. Margaret had considered sending one to Earl Warwick, the younger Richard Neville. She had met him during the siege of London, when Jack Cade brought an army into the city. Warwick had impressed her then, but York’s chancellor was his father and, with regret, she decided that his loyalties were beyond her influence.
One or two guests had sent their regrets, if they were too old or ill to make the journey. Yet over three days, thirty-eight lords and their retinues had come to Windsor, a show of enduring respect for the king that gave Margaret enormous satisfaction. She made a point of coming out to greet those whose support she needed most, honoring them publicly. It was no small thing that she did not make them come to her, and their pleasure showed in flushed cheeks and the proud smiles of their wives.
Derry
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