King of Shadows (11 page)

My only bad moment was my last speech, the Boy alone onstage after the other two have gone off; I did an awful lot of thribbling. But I was helped by the fact that I'd come way downstage, so that I was right on top of the groundlings: I fixed my eyes on one man near the front, with a round red face and two front teeth missing, and said everything right to him. It was a perfect eye contact; he was gaping at me, fascinated. And I did remember to say the last line, telling that the English camp was guarded only by boys—and that was the most important, because what happens then is that the French invade the camp and murder all the boys, and that makes King Henry truly furious.

So it all went okay, and I slipped offstage as the French
soldiers came running on the other side. I'm not sure the audience ever knew or cared that they'd been watching a different Boy from the last one they'd seen. A boy was a boy; what they cared about was the story.

In the tiring-house I ran straight into Roper, and he threw his arms around me. He smelled terrible, because of having thrown up. I guess he knew that, since he let me go almost at once, but he stood there looking at me very seriously. He said, “I thought I was dead. Tha saved my life.”

“And me only a little lass,” I said.

Roper looked down at his feet. He said, rather muffled, “Tha saved me a beating too. Missing that cue—missing that scene—Master Burbage would have—”

“Cut off thine ears,” I said. “One by one, very slowly, inch by 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.

“I 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; Master
Burbage 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.

 

“Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story

That I may prompt them....”

 

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.

 

“Were 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!”

 

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.

 

“Much more, and much more cause

Did they this Harry. . . .”

 

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?”

“Essex, 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.

I began 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 not
Nathan 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.”

“It 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.

“And what ailed our friend Roper?” he said.

“He 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?”

“If 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.”

“Who taught thee how?”

“My aunt. I told you.”

Harry and fair-haired Nick Tooley looked at each other like conspirators. Nick said, “Is she a wise woman?”

“Well, I suppose so,” I said. It wasn't quite how I would have described Aunt Jen, who is a perky little person with a grey ponytail.

“Ah,” said Nick, and nodded his head. He and Harry looked at each other again, and then at me, with what I felt was a mixture of respect and fear. It was creepy.

After rehearsal Will Shakespeare went with five other actors to a tavern not far from the Globe, to eat supper and drink and talk. He took me with him, which was great by me. Harry came too, because Master Burbage didn't want to pay for two river crossings home to Shoreditch in one night. The tavern was noisy and smoky, full of shouting red-faced men, and bustling girls trying to carry trays of mugs and avoid having their bottoms pinched; Master
Burbage led the way right through the main room to a quieter one at the back. We sat at a battered, heavy wooden table and ate bowls of a really good kind of stew, spicy, with onions in it, and hunks of new bread, and afterward Harry and I drank cider and tried not to fall asleep.

The actors fell into separate serious conversations—Master Burbage particularly earnest with Will Shakespeare, away in a corner, the two of them alone together. Pretty soon Harry and I were slumped against the wall near the glowing wood fire, which was comforting because the nights were decidedly cool even though it was August. At least, it was August in the world I had come from, so I assumed it was the same here. I never saw a calendar, and I never thought to ask. This London had all its bells ringing to tell you what time of day or night it was, but those were the only landmarks of Time to be seen or heard.

I said, “Harry, is it something special, to be a wise woman?”

Harry was drooping over his mug. He yawned. “A wise woman is a witch, of course.”

I felt suddenly cold. Harry blinked himself awake, and caught sight of my face. “What ails thee?”

“Nick Tooley said—about my Aunt Jen—”

Harry laughed. “Bless thee—anyone would be glad of a white witch in the family, to heal the sick and save life. Even Roper's life.”

“But—people burned witches—”

“Not unless they do harm.” He hoisted himself upright, back against the wall. “Th'art an odd one, Nat
Field—th'art such an innocent. Like a baby. Tha knowst so much, and then sometimes tha knows nothing.”

“I've led a quiet life,” I said. I took a breath. “Tell me about the Earl of Essex.”

Harry took a swig of cider, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Tell what?” he said cautiously.

“Anything.”

He shrugged. “Well, he is a fine lord, and handsome. We played at his great house, my first year as apprentice, and the Queen was there. She laughed with him a lot, and they whispered together. He was her favorite then. He is Earl Marshal of England, and they still cheer him in the streets.”

I said, “They cheered the lines about him in the play today.”

“Aye. But he angered the Queen somehow, he angers Robert Cecil who leads her Privy Council. Now he is in Ireland, with Will Shakespeare's patron Southampton, sent to stop the Irish from joining with our enemies in Spain. But my father says he is all ambition, he is dangerous.”

There was that word again. “What sort of dangerous?”

Harry looked around nervously, though there was nobody in the room except our masters, drinking ale and spouting solemn words at one another. “The Queen is growing old, and has not said who will succeed her. London is full of spies—Spain longs to take England—” He stopped, and looked at me helplessly. “Dost not know
any
of this, Nat?”

I hung my head and tried to look dim-witted. “There is no chance to hear street talk at St. Paul's—we are shut up like little nuns.”

“Nobody trusts anybody, that is the sum of it. They talk of plots, of assassinations—the Queen's doctor was hanged and quartered two years ago, because Essex said he'd tried to poison her.” Harry glanced across at Master Burbage, still deep in talk with Will Shakespeare. “And those who know she is coming to our theater are frightened of it, they think people might do her harm. Master Burbage would stop her coming if he could.”

“He's afraid of the
people?
The audience?”

“You heard how they cheered my Lord of Essex, who is on the outs with her.”

I looked at Richard Burbage, leaning forward anxiously to Will Shakespeare, tapping one long finger on the table to make a point. I saw Shakespeare shake his head vigorously; then he pushed back his chair with a screeching, scraping noise, and stood up. He called to me, pulling on his cloak.

“Nat? Come away, boy. Time to go home.”

So the party broke up, and everyone went off into the dark night to their respective homes. Master Shakespeare and I trudged in silence through the streets of Southwark to his lodging, in the company of a hired linkman: a kind of bodyguard, who carried a burning torch that gave off some light and a lot of bitter-smelling smoke, and had a heavy stick in his other hand to fight off anyone who tried to rob us. I don't know why they were called linkmen, but they were nearly always big battered-looking fellows with large muscles and a few missing teeth, and the muscles were reassuring. Since there were no policemen in Elizabethan London, and no streetlights, there was no shortage of robbers and other villains. It was wise not to go out
alone at night, not without a dagger or a sword or a linkman, or all three.