Winter's Fire

By Maureen Cary

In the England of James I, it is better to keep one’s own counsel, especially when the Gunpowder Plot is afoot. Lady Elizabeth Cary has been invited for a stay at Baynards Castle by her friend and mentor Countess Mary Herbert. The two are attending a play at the Globe when Countess Mary’s son Philip appears and tells his mother of the plot against the king. When the play ends, Countess Mary’s party returns to Baynard’s, where all await news of the night’s events.

The residents of Baynards Castle have their secrets, and when she visits her friends, Lady Elizabeth has secrets too. There is a well-known late-night visitor in the castle whose presence might bring scandal. Lady Elizabeth is keeping money that belongs to her father’s servingman, Toby Jones, in an arrangement that could anger her husband’s family. Sir Henry Cary is being held for ransom by the Spanish, and it has been over two years since Elizabeth has seen him.

The one secret Elizabeth is considering confiding to Countess Mary has to do with her growing desire to write her own play. When she attends the theater with her friend, she sometimes imagines that they are watching a play written by herself rather than Master Will Shakespeare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662422522

Book preview

Chapter One

London Bridge

Not even a gray parchment sky low over the Thames could subdue the high spirits of Lady Elizabeth Cary as she traversed the ancient thoroughfare.

Hot breads fer a ha’penny. Have ye two cin’mon slices. The little girl sat curled on a stool in front of her mother’s shop. With a basket of bread cradled in her lap, she sang out to the passers-by.

Drawn by the sweet melody of the child’s voice, Lady Elizabeth dodged her way against the current of the crowd to the opposite side of the bridge. She left behind the small party led by her father, Sir Lawrence Tanfield, the king’s magistrate, who, though well familiar with his daughter’s impulsiveness, felt obliged to entertain the servants who accompanied his daughter and himself with curses and loud harrumphs as Elizabeth disappeared into the crowd.

What is your name? Elizabeth asked the child as she extended a gloved palm which held a sixpence.

Mariam, replied the girl, but then she added with a frown, No pence to give back, ma’am.

No pence needed back, Mariam. A very pretty name indeed.

At this, Mariam politely took the sixpence, and Elizabeth plucked two slices from the basket. With Judge Tanfield now standing at his daughter’s side, she turned to him. Oh, Father, have you a linen for these?

As father and daughter found their servants again, he remarked, How many of my coins do you intend to give away today?

I thought that to be my coin, Papa. Did you mark her gown? So many times mended.

The poor we have always with us, Elizabeth.

And whose fault might that be? she rejoined him.

The servants, who had waited patiently for father and prodigal daughter to return, consisted of Toby Jones, manservant to Judge Tanfield, and Jane McKinnon, new lady’s maid to Lady Elizabeth.

Look, Toby, warm cinnamon bread for you and Jane. I know well you love cinnamon.

The two servants smiled and received the bread with real pleasure. They fell in behind their employers, walking together and sharing their good luck.

Sir Lawrence had an aversion to the playhouse, but to have come this far with his charges and to find all seats taken was not to his liking. That they were not arriving in a coach also made him disgruntled, but he had sent the coach ahead to the playhouse so trunks and baggage could be transferred to the Herbert carriage for his daughters’ visit with them. When Elizabeth had expressed a desire to cross the bridge on foot, he had said, Do not blame me if you cannot get into the play.

Elizabeth hurried to keep up with him. Do not worry, Father. Countess Mary will keep our seats until we come. You will not have the pleasure of buying a seat for me. And I will pay the tuppence each for Jane and Toby.

When the Judge and his daughter were out of earshot, Jane turned to Toby and said, Does she always speak thus to her father?

No, not always, replied Toby, only when he deserves it.

The two servants stifled their laughter, and Toby, who was always clever about doing more than one thing at a time, pointed out the sights to Jane, including a friend’s dwelling high above them in the third story of a milliner’s shop. Jane was an Irish country lass in London for the first time. Toby had a prodigious knowledge of the capital, and his young companion was fast becoming an admiring pupil.

Lady Elizabeth nodded to her father’s complaints but kept an ear to Toby’s creative account of the bridge’s history and his identification of its most prominent buildings. She was pleased with her plan to alight from the coach and send it on to the playhouse so that they might walk the bridge, taking in its colorful sights. Ahead of them, above the pedestrians and the rooftops, the azure flag of the Globe flapped in the wind, a bright watermark against the blank page of sky.

Chapter Two

The Globe

Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, preferred hearing plays at Whitehall or Greenwich, which she was pleased to have done many times during the reign of the late queen. Since the coronation of James I, invitations continued to arrive at Wilton House, but they were fewer in number. Privately, the countess judged this was her son William’s doing, but publicly she told friends that a new monarch required a new court, and she felt content to let the younger people take the lead. Since her husband’s death, William, now the Earl of Pembroke, had become an even more prominent figure in London society.

The countess thought of both her sons, William and Philip, as she waited in her carriage outside the Globe Theatre on this sunless November afternoon. William Herbert, one of the richest men in the country, had considerably more influence at court than persons outside his family understood. Though his brief imprisonment in the tower had temporarily sullied the family name, all dishonor seemed to have been forgotten once the new king had received him. Strained feelings existed between mother and son, which the family also strove to keep private. The two saw less of each other than they once did, even when both were in residence in town at Baynard’s Castle. They sometimes communicated through others or by missives. Philip, the younger Herbert son, was often the bearer of these notes, a task he dreaded but could not avoid. These circumstances grieved Mary Herbert, but she, like her sons, understood that a rapprochement would take time.

Across from her sat her niece, Elizabeth Sidney Manners, Countess of Rutland, friend to Lady Elizabeth Cary. Beth, as she was called by family and friends, leaned out the window on her side of the coach to watch for her friend’s approach. I hope nothing has gone amiss. You go and take your seat, Aunt Mary.

Nonsense. Sir Lawrence will not be late, if it can be at all helped. And his coach is here, so they must be on the bridge.

Other playgoers kept a respectful distance from the Pembroke carriage, but two footmen stood before and after the vehicle on the chance that someone might forget this protocol.

In this district of Southwark, bordering the river, the great contradictory forces of human nature were everywhere displayed. Puritans prayed aloud for God’s mercy and forgiveness. The great lyric power of the language rang out daily from the stage. Gruff men offered free entry to bear-baiting pits and dicing halls. Medicines, potions, poisons, astrological predictions, poor beasts, and people—all were for sale from dozens of gaudily dressed hawkers who encircled the theater before a performance. Only the Globe itself and a play by William Shakespeare could tempt the countess from the relative peace of Baynard’s Castle, for she had grown tired of the vagaries of humankind and only wished to encounter them enacted on the stage.

There was a tapping at the carriage door, then Countess Mary’s manservant, Anthony Travers, appeared. Your guests have arrived, Your Grace.

Please invite them to step into the carriage, Anthony, so I can greet them properly.

As the crowds outside the theater swelled, the noise made conversation difficult. Mary Herbert closed the doors and lowered the sash over the windows as Sir Lawrence and Lady Elizabeth took their seats opposite Beth and herself. Sir Lawrence, we are most grateful that you should bring your daughter to us. Her visits are always occasions of great happiness at Baynard’s Castle.

Lawrence Tanfield knew himself to be a gentleman, but he became slightly disconcerted in the presence of the countess, as if he were encountering the dead queen herself. Your Grace, Lady Tanfield and I appreciate your kindness to Elizabeth. You and your family are most dear to her. He spoke this with a slight bow, not easily accomplished in a carriage.

The two Elizabeths, who had not spoken, exchanged a slight smile at this, which was not lost on Countess Mary. Would you stay, Sir Lawrence, and have a word with me? Anthony can see the ladies to their seats.

Of course, Your Grace, but may I first buy seats for my servants who wait outside?

They may join us upstairs. I’m told you cannot see well from the lower floor. The gallery seats ten. There is room aplenty.

Goodbye, Father. Thank you for coming to get me. Please tell Mother I am well and shall write soon. She gave a quick kiss to her father’s forehead, then Elizabeth and Beth were out the door.

Youth, I would have its energy back but not its impulsiveness. Her friendly tone put him more at ease.

They are much alike, I believe, the judge responded.

Yes, but your Elizabeth is the better mistress of her emotions. Her effect on our Beth is salutary. I find, Sir Lawrence, as I grow older, I must resist the temptation to meddle in other people’s lives, yet because of my great fondness for your daughter, I have decided to break my rule. You are aware of her treatment in the Cary household?

Countess, she has not burdened you—

Elizabeth has told me nothing, but her friends say that she is little better than a prisoner there.

I think there has been some exaggeration in this account, Your Grace. Lady Cary has told me that she fears Elizabeth will grow used to having freedoms that will not be hers when her husband returns from Flanders. She…she says that it is unseemly for Elizabeth to be seen enjoying herself while her husband is imprisoned in a foreign land.

Is it too much freedom to read a book, to have visitors? Can you imagine your daughter without books, Sir Lawrence? One could more easily imagine an English garden without roses.

The judge felt the countess’s reproach keenly, for he had already said these things to himself. No…the books…that is harsh. I tried to keep books from her when she was young, but she hid them in her room and bribed the servants to buy her candles. I will speak to Lady Cary. But you must know, Countess, that when a woman leaves her father’s house—

I know Sir Henry a little, Sir Lawrence. I cannot imagine he would want his wife to be without books or visitors.

No, I believe you are right.

Have you made a contribution to the ransom fees Sir Richard is attempting to raise for his son’s release?

I have given what I can.

Perhaps you will find a way to give more. You are known as a shrewd bargainer in some circles, Judge. I will speak to my sons. The Herbert family may be able to make a second contribution.

Though not as artful with words as Mary Herbert, Sir Lawrence understood the implication. I have no desire to quarrel with any in your family, Your Grace. He tried not to stammer, But you know, Elizabeth is…very…she is willful.

Call it spirit and we shall not quarrel. Do you think the Lord gives women gifts of intelligence and reason and then desires that we should neglect these gifts?

I am only a poor king’s magistrate. I think this is for a theologian to discern.

In my view, which may not be commonly held, a father’s concern for his daughter should continue even after the dowry has been given. Please do speak with Lady Cary, and mention that I send her thanks for allowing Elizabeth to come and stay with me. I will write to her and send the letter when Elizabeth returns home.

Sir Lawrence knew his interview with Mary Herbert was at an end. He bowed awkwardly again, said Thank you several times, then bolted out the door to take a seat in his own coach, which awaited him nearby.

Before the countess could make her own exit from the coach, the door was flung open; a grinning Philip Herbert threw himself down on the seat across from his mother.

Where have you come from? she asked.

"Did you speak to him?

I did.

Did you mention that we know he takes bribes and, if he does not do something about Elizabeth’s circumstances, we shall have his sorry backside thrown in the tower?

Yes, Philip, those were my very words to Sir Lawrence. And he does not take bribes. She straightened her wool jerkin. His wife takes them.

For him! So he can call himself an honest magistrate, as if there were such a thing.

We must go now, or we shall both miss the beginning of the play.

Mother, I was at Whitehall this morning. There are many rumors abroad.

What sort of rumors?

That the king may not open Parliament tomorrow, that there is a plot to kill him.

No, this cannot be! But as soon as she had said this, she covered her mouth with her hand, for she knew that it easily could be.

You must be silent on this, Mother. Hear the play, then go directly to the castle. You may be staying indoors more than you planned as it may not be entirely safe to traverse the city. Do not speak of it to Beth or Elizabeth, for it would only spoil the play. I will see you later in the evening.

Philip accompanied his mother, who was too shocked to speak, up the stairs to her bench in the playhouse. He greeted the ladies and Toby with affable charm, saying to Elizabeth and his cousin before he departed, I will be seated on the stage. Blow kisses to me.

The resourceful Anthony arrived upstairs with cushions for all, and they were too busy arranging themselves in their seats to notice the changed mood of the countess.

When the Globe Theatre was filled to overflowing with playgoers, its walls and floors shook with merriment during a comedy and shifted and groaned during a tragedy. The playhouse had become the center of the life of London for all but the Royal Court. This was a truth lost on many of the nobility but not on the king himself. He loved the theater, and though he could not go to the playhouse, he knew the people’s hearts were won or lost on its stage. This was why he wasted no time in acquiring the patronage of the best acting company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, shortly after his coronation. The King’s Men now ruled the Globe, and the king enjoyed the sound of the phrase.

High in the upper gallery, Mary Herbert, having mastered her emotions for the moment, turned to Elizabeth and asked, What is the play? I have forgotten to ask Philip.

Lady Elizabeth whispered back, "It is The Tragedy of King Lear. This is Kent. He speaks to Gloucester about the king and Gloucester’s son."

You know a great deal. I thought this to be a new play.

Yes, it is new. I…heard. Philip told me. Elizabeth did not relish dissembling, especially with her dear friend, but she told herself there were others to protect besides herself, and the countess would be shocked to learn why Elizabeth was already familiar with the tragedy.

The groundlings quieted down as Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund gave their exposition. A few minutes into the scene, Lear made his entrance in the person of the great Burbage. Spontaneous cheers echoed round the theater, causing the actor to pause before speaking the lines, Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. By the time he had begun his first speech, Meanwhile we shall express our darker purpose, the playhouse had grown as quiet as a Sunday service at Saint Paul’s.

The King’s Men were in exceptional form, which was fortunate because the play was as one of Master Shakespeare’s lengthier efforts. In a later scene, when the enfeebled king raged against his ungrateful daughters, Elizabeth saw the countess stop a tear from falling by resting her cheek in her hand. This gave Elizabeth pause to think of her own father and how little gratitude she had lately shown him.

But in the middle of the tragedy, Elizabeth, who now watched with great attention, heard Edgar recite, In woman out paramoured the Turk, and she said too loudly, What!

This caused Countess Mary to turn to her young friend and whisper, What?

An embarrassed Elizabeth whispered back, I am sorry. What did he say?

We have lost it now.

I do apologize, Countess. I did forget myself.

Philip Herbert sat stage left, by the second pillar, in a red velvet chair. The poet Michael Drayton sat beside him in an equally comfortable chair, though this university wit appeared to be sleeping. Philip, who glanced up occasionally to see how his mother enjoyed the play, saw the exchange between the two women. He tried to catch Elizabeth’s eye when his mother looked away, but Elizabeth pretended not to see this because Beth sat on her right side and would certainly note an exchange of looks between her cousin and her friend.

In the scene of reconciliation between Lear and Cordelia, many of the women playgoers shed tears. The young actor who played Cordelia had the sense to let Burbage take the lead, and the boy’s performance was the more moving for it.

By the time of Cordelia’s death at the end of the tragedy, the playgoers were as spent as the actors. When the old king died with the words, Look there. Look there. O O O O, most in the Globe were broken with grief.

There was applause as the actors took their bows, but it was not the boisterous sound that had been heard after Othello. People left the theater quickly. Those occupying the Herbert bench spoke little. The countess sat in silence, staring at the stage as if the play continued, until her retainer Anthony appeared at her side and said, Your Grace, the carriage is ready.

Lady Elizabeth followed the others down to the entrance. She, too, said nothing. The performance had been even better than she had imagined. She wondered who of the audience would discuss the tragedy as they returned home and what they would say.

In fact, there was little discussion from playgoers who spilled out toward the river and the bridge. They knew death was the final act of any tragedy. They had prepared themselves for that, but the terrible self-knowledge Lear faced before his death had shaken them. Of the men and women who would return home to tell of Master Shakespeare’s newest tragedy, not a few walked into the night wondering about the ends of their own stories and thinking about the Cordelias from whom they might one day need to beg forgiveness.

Chapter Three

Baynard’s Castle

As afternoon gave way to evening, the Countess Herbert’s carriage pulled into the larger of the castle’s two courtyards. Its weary occupants removed themselves to the house while servants sorted the visitors’ bags and cases that had been deposited in the Great Hall.

Baynard’s Castle, London home of the Herbert family, was a landmark well-known by city dwellers and travelers on the Thames. More house than castle, the wooden edifice, with three stories and a stone facade, at a distance could easily be mistaken for a playhouse. Its gabled roof and oak-framed windows made it a magnificent example of the English style, as many called the architecture of the previous century.

Because it was the countess’s favorite town home, she kept a small apartment of rooms on the upper floor of the north wing, away from the noise of the river. Even her dispute with William had not put an end to this arrangement. With two courtyard entrances, the house allowed for private comings and goings among the residents. It had been said that a guest at Baynard’s could spend a fortnight there without knowing who else occupied the premises.

The bedrooms were large with high ceilings, generous fireplaces, and four-poster beds. Luxurious appointments, many imported from the continent, made up the bedding and furnishings, giving each guest room a distinctive decor. No grander accommodations, with the exception of Whitehall Palace, could be found within the City.

As servants carried Lady Elizabeth’s and her own servants’ traveling bags to their appointed rooms, Toby, who well knew the practices of Baynard’s, showed Jane to the servants’ quarters on the lower level of the center wing, where Mrs. Fellows, the housekeeper, awaited them. Countess Mary removed herself to her apartment on the north side, and Anthony carried Lady Elizabeth’s valise to the guest room she always occupied with its view of the river. Elizabeth and Beth followed him but at a slower pace, as they were determined to get in as much conversation