The Nicholas Bracewell Collection by Edward Marston

corner to Benjamin Creech, another of the hired men. Nicholas waved Ruff over to him. Since his visit from Susan Fowler, he had had no chance to speak to the other alone. When he described what had happened, Ruff was as amazed as he had been. There was a tide of regret in his voice.
    ‘Will Fowler married? I can’t believe it.’
    ‘Neither could I.’
    ‘He said nothing.’
    ‘Not even a hint between old friends?’
    ‘No,’ replied Ruff. ‘And we drifted apart for so long. Will Fowler! I’d never have thought him serious-minded enough to take a wife. And such a young, untried girl at that.’
    ‘It has been an ordeal for her.’
    ‘Is she still at your lodging, Nick?’
    ‘She travels back to St Albans today,’ explained theother. ‘Susan is in good hands. A close friend of mine will see her safely on her journey.’
    Anne Hendrik had treated the girl like a daughter and helped her through the first difficult days of mourning. A widow herself, she knew at first hand the deep pain and the numbing sense of loss that Susan felt, though she could only guess at how much worse it must be to have a husband violently cut down in a brawl. Nicholas had been touched to see how Anne had opened her heart to their young guest and it had deepened his affection for his landlady. Susan’s visit had also given him paternal feelings that surprised him.
    ‘Do you know where the girl lives?’ asked Ruff.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I would like to know. One day, I might just find myself in that part of the country. If I stay in this verminous profession, anything can happen.’ A grim smile brushed his lips. ‘The truth is that I’m curious to meet her. Anyone who can take Will Fowler as a husband must have rare qualities.’
    ‘Oh, she does.’
    ‘He was not the easiest man to live with.’
    ‘No. Did Will ever talk to you about his faith?’
    ‘Only to curse it now and again in his cups.’
    ‘He was of the Church of Rome.’
    ‘What?’ Ruff was thunderstruck. ‘That is impossible.’
    ‘So was his marriage.’
    ‘But he never showed any inclination that way.’
    ‘He was an actor, Sam. I think he had been giving us all a very clever performance for some time.’
    ‘But the Romish persuasion …’
    He shook his head in wonder. Life in the theatre was likely to turn a man to anything but religion, still less to an exiled faith for which its martyrs were still dying the death of traitors. Samuel Ruff was dazed. Having enjoyed a friendship with someone for many years, he was now learning that it was founded on deceit. It hurt him to think that he had been hoodwinked.
    ‘Nicholas,’ he whispered.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Who was he?’
    ‘I will let you know when I find out.’

    There was only one thing worse than the extended agony of writing Gloriana Triumphant and that was waiting for Lawrence Firethorn to read it and pass judgement. He did not mince his words if he had criticisms and Edmund Hoode had suffered many times at his hands. As he waited for his colleague to dine with him at The Queen’s Head, he sipped a glass of malmsey to fortify himself. He was of a different cast from Roger Bartholomew. The latter was an inexperienced playwright who believed that everything he wrote was superb; Hoode was an author of proven worth who became more uncertain of his talent with each play he wrote.
    Firethorn made an entrance and posed in the doorway. His brow was troubled and his eyes malevolent. Fearing the inevitable, Hoode drained his cup of malmsey in one urgent gulp.
    ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Edmund,’ muttered Firethornas he took his seat at the table. ‘I was delayed.’
    ‘I’ve not been here long.’
    ‘It has been a devilish day. I need a drink.’
    Hoode sat there in silence while the wine was ordered, served and drunk. His companion was in such a foul mood over the play that he wondered if anything about it had given pleasure. Though he had been forced into developing a romance, it had actually enriched the drama