King of Shadows by Susan Cooper Page A

inch.” I grinned at him, which took some effort because my doing the Heimlich business had nothing to do with him. As far as I was concerned he was the same mean little monster he’d been before. He didn’t grin back; he went on giving me this same earnest look. I think Roper was feeling an emotion he’d never had to cope with before: guilt.
    â€œI am in thy debt, Nathan Field,” he said stiffly. “I shall not forget.”
    He patted me on the shoulder and I gave a sort of awkward shrug. I was wishing I knew the Elizabethan way to say, “Okay—just stop bugging me from now on.”
    Will Shakespeare came sweeping past us toward the stage, pulling on the robe he wore as Chorus, ignoring an anxious tireman running after him with his hat. He caught sight of me, and stopped suddenly, and the tireman bumped into him, frantically holding out the hat so it wouldn’t get squashed. From the stage we heard a great cheer; MasterBurbage had reached the end of the scene in which King Henry hears that his little army of Brits have managed to kill ten thousand Frenchmen in battle while losing only twenty-nine men themselves. (Ten thousand? Are you kidding me?)
    Shakespeare paused for a moment, gazing at me, but he had no chance to say anything, because his cue had come: the tireman plunked his hat on his head, straightened it, and pushed him around to face the stage. And as Master Burbage came stalking backstage through the door stage right, out went Will Shakespeare stage left, to face the world, our world, the audience.
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    â€œVouchsafe to those that have not read the story
    That I may prompt them....”
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    I stood behind the stage hangings, listening. He had a wonderful voice, clear and warm and sort of mid-brown. I was as happy that moment as I think I’ll ever be: standing there listening to him, knowing I was part—and a useful part, just now—of his company, safe in the small family world of the theater. I wanted it never to end.
    Shakespeare went on with that speech that tells the audience how King Henry is now coming back in triumph to London from France, and I was half hearing it, half just enjoying the sound of his voice, when a few particular words came, interrupting my vague head because suddenly they didn’t make sense.
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    â€œWere now the General of our gracious Empress—
    As in good time he may—from Ireland coming,
    Bringing rebellion broached upon his sword,
    How many would the peaceful city quit
    To welcome him!”
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    Empress? Ireland? I didn’t understand. I’d never noticed that part before. And then there was a huge cheer from the audience at the word welcome, so that Master Shakespeare had to wait for them to quiet down before he could go on.
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    â€œMuch more, and much more cause
    Did they this Harry. . . .”
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    Close to me, Tom the book-keeper was sitting with his script, listening, looking sour. I said in his ear, “What are they shouting about?”
    â€œEssex, of course,” he said. “Where hast’a been, boy? Pretty Robin, Earl of Essex, who is in Ireland about the Queen’s business putting down rebellion. And let’s hope, not starting one of his own.” But he dropped his voice on this last bit, and his eyes flickered cautiously to and fro.
    I remembered Will Shakespeare protesting that morning to the nameless lord that he was not political, and wondered why, in that case, he had dropped such an obvious compliment to the Earl of Essex into his Henry V.
    It didn’t seem to bother Roper, who was clapping along with the audience, his face bright and intent. Behind him in the shadowy tiring-house I saw Master Burbage, listening too, caught into stillness after his bustling exit from the stage. He was King Henry, confident and magnificent in his gleaming armor, but suddenly his face was quite different. He was shaking his head, uneasy. He looked frightened.

ELEVEN
    I began