King of Shadows by Susan Cooper Page B

to be frightened too, that evening, for the first time—even through the delight I had from being with Will Shakespeare, being one of the Chamberlain’s Men. Partly I was afraid of this business about the Earl of Essex, whatever it was. Shakespeare had some connection with him, the nameless lord had called him dangerous, Master Burbage was clearly nervous—and worst of all, though I could remember very little about Arby’s potted history of Elizabethan England, I did remember that Queen Elizabeth had had Essex’s head chopped off. So that Essex was about to end up, sooner or later, among those terrible pecked-at skulls stuck up over London Bridge.
    Why did that happen, and when? I was afloat in Time, I didn’t know where I was.
    But I did know one other thing that worried me. In less than twenty-four hours’ time, we would perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream in front of the Queen, and after that the Chamberlain’s Men would have no more need for Nathan Field, and he would be sent back to St. Paul’s School, where he came from. What would become of me then? I should lose Will Shakespeare—and be faced with the friends and family of the real Nathan, who would instantly know that whoever I was, I was certainly notNathan Field. If I felt I had very little place in my own world anymore, I was going to have even less in this one. It was terrifying, like facing a drop over a huge cliff.
    In fact it was so terrifying that I pushed it out of my head, and tried to concentrate on the shadowy Earl of Essex instead.
    After Henry V and a break, we rehearsed A Midsummer Night’s Dream until dark, though without Bottom the Weaver, because Master Burbage was exhausted. He took a nap on a mattress at the back of the tiring-house, oblivious of us. I loved doing my scenes with Will Shakespeare—and I loved our costumes, which the tireman produced for a fitting. They were wildly fantastical; Shakespeare had shimmering robes over a bare chest and full, shot-silk pants, with a weird headdress and antennae on his head.
    I was to wear gleaming green tights, like the skin of some exotic snake, and nothing else but a lot of body paint. The tireman told me that the tights had cost the equivalent of six months of his wages, so that he would personally destroy me if I tore them. He showed me a drawing of the design for the makeup on the rest of me. “Master Burbage will paint you,” he said, “but not till the day. It will take almost an hour.”
    Shakespeare said to me, as we were waiting for an entrance, “I hear thou leapt into the breach this afternoon.”
    â€œIt was good luck,” I said. I was going to tell him I’d played the Boy before, but I suddenly remembered that it was a new play. “Uh—I’d been listening to Roper rehearse, and I have a memory like a sponge. So I remembered his lines.”
    It sounded improbable, but he seemed to believe it.
    â€œAnd what ailed our friend Roper?” he said.
    â€œHe was ill,” I said evasively. “Something he ate.”
    Will Shakespeare looked down at me with an odd smile. “My small magician,” he said. And then it was our cue, and we went through the door to the stage.
    The other boys were more interested in Roper’s choking and its cure than in my having done his scene. They made me uneasy: they were looking at me warily as if I’d grown another head. Harry said, “What didst tha do to him?”
    â€œIf someone chokes, you hold him from behind and push hard into his belly, so the air pushes up out of his lungs and blows out whatever he’s choking on. That’s all.”
    â€œWho taught thee how?”
    â€œMy aunt. I told you.”
    Harry and fair-haired Nick Tooley looked at each other like conspirators. Nick said, “Is she a wise woman?”
    â€œWell, I suppose so,” I said. It wasn’t quite how I would have described Aunt Jen, who is a perky