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However the name was derived Henry loved the place. Perhaps he had been drawn to it in the first place because his idol Edward the Confessor was reputed to have kept Court here. William the Conqueror had been there too. So, less happily, had Henry’s father John who had stayed here during that wretched period of his life when he had been forced to sign Magna Carta.
With his passion for building Henry had made alterations to the Castle. He had enlarged the Lower Ward and added a chapel of which he was very proud. He never tired of telling people that it was seventy feet long and twenty-eight feet wide and the wood roof had been lined and painted like stone and covered with lead.
He regarded Windsor as second in importance only to the Tower of London and it was much more pleasant to live in.
So to Windsor he came whenever he could and he and Eleanor both liked the children to be there because they considered it to be most healthy.
It was while they were riding through the streets of Windsor that they noticed a little girl begging by the roadside. Her clothes were tattered and her hair hung limply about her little white face.
The Queen turned to Henry who understood immediately what she meant and he threw a coin to the child. The Queen’s eyes softened as she saw the little creature catch it and the joy which illuminated her face.
In her own nursery while Eleanor gloated over her healthy children the face of the little beggar girl kept rising in her mind.
‘What is it?’ asked the King. ‘You are sad today.’
‘I was thinking of that child. She could not be much older than our Edward. To think that she is often hungry … so dirty and tattered. And there must be many like her.’
The King nodded.
‘There have always been beggars,’ he said.
‘I like not to see little children go hungry,’ replied the Queen.
And every now and then she would remember the little beggar girl and a certain melancholy would linger.
Then the King had an idea which he thought would please her. He came to her beaming with satisfaction.
‘What do you think I have just done, Eleanor?’ he asked, and as she could not guess, he told her.
‘I have sent out an order that all the poor children from the streets of Windsor and the surrounding villages shall be collected and brought into the castle. There in the great hall there shall be such a feast as they will remember all their lives.’
‘Henry,’ she clasped her hands and gazed at him in delight. ‘You are doing this for me,’ she added soberly.
‘What better reason could there be?’
‘You are so good, Henry. I never dreamed … so long ago it seems now … in Provence …’
He put his arm about her. ‘We shall be there,’ he said, ‘you and I, to see their pleasure. We shall sit at the high table and watch them. We’ll have the babies there.’
‘The girls will be too young to know what it is about.’
‘Edward then.’
She was thoughtful, visualising it. ‘The people must love you after this,’ she cried. ‘There has been so much unkindness … we have been so criticised.’
‘I was not thinking of it to please the people but to please you.’
‘I ca
‘For a day, mayhap.’
The arrangements were made and it must have been the strangest sight the old hall had ever seen when the poor children of Windsor came crowding into it. They looked incongruous there among the grandeur which was the home of kings.
But Henry and Eleanor were delighted. They wore their crowns because they thought the children would expect it and indeed the most inspiring sights in that hall for most of the children were the two glittering figures at the high table. Eyes were fixed on them until the good things they were to eat were set on the trestle tables.
Eleanor had at the last moment been afraid to bring Edward down.
‘Such children might have some disease which could harm him,’ she decided.
No, the little boy was safe with his nurses although she agreed with Henry that it would have been a good experience for him to see how a monarch’s popularity should be courted.
The feast was a great success; and when the children had eaten the tables were cleared away and games were played.
Some of the children’s parents were allowed into the castle and to these Henry a
The people cheered and cried: ‘God Bless the King.’
And for a week whenever he and the Queen ventured out in the town of Windsor they were greeted with vociferous affection.
‘It was a very clever thing to do,’ said the Queen admiringly, ‘as well as a good one.’
Richard was happy in his marriage with Sanchia. The bond between the sisters was firm and because of this Richard found himself more and more with his brother and consequently giving him his support. This was noticed by the barons who had looked to him as their leader in their conflicts with Henry, and they viewed the situation with some dismay because Richard had seemed such a natural leader.
Through Richard’s first marriage with Isabella, who had been William Marshal’s daughter, he had been often in the company of the barons who were determined to uphold Magna Carta; and now his links with them were weakening; through Sanchia and her constant contact with her sister he was definitely veering towards the Court.
At the same time he was able to take a clearer view of the state of the country than Henry was, and there were often times when he was disturbed by the way in which everything was going.
Sometimes he visualised the barons rising once more against Henry as they had against John. That had been a dangerous precedent. It had been done once and could be done again. Once a king had been brought to his knees it was something which would never be forgotten.
There was a great deal to live down and sometimes he thought that Henry deliberately shut his eyes to this.
Richard knew that there was a great deal of dissatisfaction, particularly in the capital. He had his men placed in the taverns and along the water front that they might inform him of what was being said.
The constant cause of complaint was the Queen’s family … the foreigners. And of course the Queen’s family was Sanchia’s family.
He talked to Sanchia at times for he wondered if perhaps she might be the one to warn the Queen who would warn the King.
Sanchia was more reasonable than her sister; of a gentler nature than Eleanor she was ready to listen – particularly to Richard.
‘It is difficult to tell Eleanor anything she does not want to hear,’ she explained.
‘I know it well,’ replied Richard. ‘I am surprised that it should be so in one so intelligent.’
‘Eleanor always believed that she was capable of anything, and so much that she tries for she gets.’
‘We are dealing with a nation,’ he replied. ‘People can suddenly rise against their rulers. They endure a good deal and then something happens which may seem trivial … and that is the spark which starts the fire.’
‘And are you very anxious, Richard?’
‘I see trouble ahead. Not immediate perhaps … but on the horizon. This affair of your Uncle Boniface …’
‘Oh, that is over and forgotten.’
‘Forgotten. It will never be forgotten. The Londoners will store it up in their memories and it will be brought out at some later date. It is not forgotten, I assure you, and it was most unfortunate. Sanchia, when you get the opportunity try to make your uncles understand the English. They are not always what they seem. They accept something – appearing to be meek. Make no mistake. That is not meekness. It is a kind of lethargy, a disinclination to arise and do something … but depend upon it in due course the urge will come … and then when they rise up you see them in their true colours. They will go on fighting until they get what they want.’