Chapter 1

       I was born a thief a liar and a cheat. I bought and sold for my life on the street, bargaining bread for guidance through the pained cobbles of Madrid; my bare cracked feet treading lies by selling directions to places I did not know and friendship to strangers I did not want to know. They walked with me in circles: their purses would be mine before the journey was through. I lived on the edge where robbery was business and my business was robbery. Once a cheat always a cheat, once a lie is told it brands the liar, I stole so I was a thief. I was a cheat by nature, a liar by occupation and a thief of Necessity. Business was good.
        But I stole I cheated and I lied for life; I was alone: a thief among lonely thieves, we were all afraid of having our last mouthful stolen. I learned deception by guile, cunning and resource. There was no honour; I would have stolen from myself if I would not have been caught. An urchin’s life is full of deceit the Lord Necessity corrupted us all. Death was often so close at hand it would not have injured my soul to take revenge and kill for survival, but that sin was deprived me by Lady Fortune who had laid other plans. She took me from the street, from the brawls and the murders and thefts, clothed fed and taught me until I believed I was no longer of the common crowd.
        Nine years old, tall and proud, I was introduced to the court of Isabel, Queen of England: Elizabeth of England. I knew her as The Heretic, devoid of God; and by her reputation: brave brutality and living by the breath of luck preceding her. She was the known agent of evil and I had heard it from the Holy Father that she was to be converted or assassinated. Pope Gregory I had seen at first hand. I knew him to be an intolerant and hard man, but he was a living saint and through him righteous peasants like me could, should and would have the guiding hand of god.
         I was a servant, a bastard and an interloper. I did not belong. I was of the starving plaguing streets. There I had began and yet should have remained. Not I though: chameleon and actor, changeling and usurper. Cruel Fates, those Greek goddesses of the over-world, daughters of Lord Necessity, had prepared me other roads yet more perilous. If god had no place on earth then surely those three witches held the supreme power. Those goddesses of the over-world had cast their spells and from the witch’s divination sacrificed, drawn entrails and read my future.
           Don Bernardino de Mendoza was a curiously quiet man for his place in history. He wore his thoughts like a cloud around the shadows beneath his eyes. Someone else always enforced his barely murmured orders. I learned to obey. His servants with cruel jealousy and snobbery never accepted a former street boy as their senior whatever my education and formal position might have risen to, they were only too pleased to whip me.
           I became Mendoza’s page to the Spanish Court, taking messages from and to my Master; his façade disguised a cruel and indifferent man of high noble blood and questionable integrity. I was his help and his danger. I helped him see when the light faded, became his eyes when he could not see and holding his hand led him to bed when his senses could not feel the doorways and staircases of his home. I learned his secrets; I took the letters of promotion dismissal and merciless execution by rope, rack and garrotte. As he was indifferent to me, I was to him in all but fear. I learned the discipline but understood that my warrant for execution might be placed in my hand at any moment. Mendoza believed in the magic of his own prayer. He was the zealot who plucked me from the street for his own purpose, I was taught only to obey. I was a servant, a messenger and a guide. And as I became his eyes, ears and nose I sunk heavily to the position of spy. It was a position I took seriously, as did he, though for different reasons. I for safety: he for cunning deceit and deception. But Mendoza never became a part of my soul for secretly I despised him, what he stood for and what he attempted to make of me. I had been born a free spirit and my soul shone with the freedom that my stars had forecast and for which I worshipped the three witches and Lady Fortune.

           The sad life of Vinicio was full of the cruellest of surprises. I had lived abandoned, to walk alone the thoroughfares of Madrid, alone, as a vagrant diseased and deceived. I had been a beggar, a thief, a servant and a slave. I had had many masters before Mendoza and cruelty was their only consistent feature. It had been the witch Carmen Maria who in the plaza strapped to the byre had looked into my eyes, I an urchin and forecast my power.
           “I am a witch, I am a witch; I am a witch. I curse, curse and curse you all,” she had screamed as they lit the kindling. “Kill me and it makes no difference for I am God. I am the devil; I am the future. Light the fire; how it kindles the spirit of my soul.” The witch laughed, “ I smell the wood, soon I shall smell my flesh. It licks my toes. The pain; I like the pain. You will know this pain boy.” She stared straight at me.
           “It is the pain of triumph for I have won. You will not starve forever. Lady Fortune will fall from the stars, I read it in your face.”
           The flames seemed to engulf her. The priests laughed and the crowd looked at her in dismay. The witch had been one of the older women in the village, their grandmother, she had forecast their futures and given them hope. I tried to turn away. “I have seen your face in the stars boy, you are more important than you think.” She screamed, screamed; screamed.
           “Nada pasar. Ella fue Madre a todo,” a passer-by murmured sadly. He looked at me and explained. The witch had been mother to them all. She was an innocent grandmother who would die in pain knowing her death satisfied the priests. Old age had demented her mind and her incoherent whisperings had sentenced her. But it was she, in agony who shouted the prophesy of my greatness which gave me hope as the light from the furnace extinguished hers.
          Lady Fortune had stolen her last breath.

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Chapter 3

              Vinicio was a heroic guardian angel of the true faith and I was welcomed at the table of the Holy Father. If I died, I knew, I would be eating with god. I was convinced that Marlowe was the spirit of The Devil himself sent from the fires of hell. Evil was his purpose; he against the forces of the Holy Father, I for: he an agent of Isabel, I Phillip. Cut me with an axe, splinter my heart with knives; my frail body no more than innocent kindling was at his disposal. Imagination fuelled by dreams of glory did not reflect the revenge I wished to inflict; revenge was what I wanted; it was my aim, my desire, my will.
              Vinicio was a knight fighting the forces of evil alone I would challenge, fight, run; cause death destruction and revenge against the devil heretics. Then fly before the devil. I Vinicio would then go to the streets once more and there hide until my true master came. The Holy Father would bless me himself.
              But Vinicio was like a rat between water and fire: a coward, a traitor, and a child. I chose the closest element out of convenience: the fire, cowardice and daily deceit.
              Greenwich; on the other side of the Thames lay London itself, a city of great proportions and poverty where urchins appeared and disappeared and vanished invisible to the nobles. Children died quickly and were discarded without wrath or revenge. How I had survived starvation and disease I did not know. Madrid with its poisoned wells in summer left rotting corpses on its streets without sight of the plague. But I had survived, I was well and had lost no eyes ears or limbs: I had my senses to feel, smell, see, taste and hear. Whatever happened I was there to record history.

              But still I laid my plan of escape. I could feel there was danger in the air. I knew that those who would use me would dispose of my carcass when I had fulfilled my purpose; the night’s dreams were the price I paid for foresight. In haste I would take to the Isle of Dogs. The plagued thoroughfares and corners of London would hide me as they had in Madrid; I would be hidden in the multitude.
              My plan of escape, like my dream to be a hero came to nothing. Marlowe commanded me to gather my things immediately; I was to travel that night. Time had pressed Marlowe, he was to travel north and I with him. I feared for assassins in the shadows, poison in the larder; they knew my defence and had moved the pieces in a game to thwart me.
              Marlowe made my position clear; he was to be my master, I his servant. I feared what would happen next. I dreaded that they would take me where my cries could not be heard, there, torture me for information, maim me for amusement and kill me for god.
              Mendoza had been right. He had said they would try to corrupt or kill me.
I was loyal to the Pope I would not tell the heretics what I knew. How could I betray my king, the Holy Father and betray God? I would have spent nine years on earth be cast out as a traitor by the wealthiest king on earth, excommunicated if only the Holy father concerned himself with one so insignificant as I, then spend the rest of eternity in hell.
              My master had business in a town called Cambridge north of London: it was a business I had no liking for. I wanted to stay with my new friends at court. I liked the life of nobility. But I was destined, as always, to follow my master and Cambridge was where I had to live until Walsingham requested us back.
              Vinicio was offended. Vinicio wanted to be revered and not be the unwanted baggage travelling lopsided on the back of heretic cobbler’s son.
              It was two days ride to Cambridge. When Mendoza had taken me to Bibao we had travelled in a style I wished to become more accustomed to. Mendoza had a grand Carriage drawn by six noble horses and surrounded by cavalry who demonstrated the division between noble and peasant by clearing the road with their sabres. All houses on route had become ours for the asking. I had wanted to brush once more among such power. I had no wish to return to be servant to a master.

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Chapter 6

              God, playing dice with his planets and his stars, was creating havoc through the universe with his influence: the zodiac. The planets turned, the astrologers sang and the red blood planet, Mars came into view, big, bright and clear: a portentous event.
              Mars: Roman god of war, bringer of sadness, life and death: always at terrors end.
              The position of the planets, where the heavens echoed earthly fate, was not controlled by Copernican theory. Marlowe was wrong: the bright morning red star heralded obstacles of treachery and deceit; diversion and distraction lay on my path.
              Mars: the Roman name for March.
              March, and the hares are playing across the gardens, snares set to happily welcome them to the pot, coats fluffy and warm in the new sun’s rays; night and darkness have been left in winter.
Marlowe had taught me that March was when Brutus stabbed the Roman Emperor Julius to death, in the back: feigned friend comrade and rival. That had been the ides, the 14th, the very day we were set to meet the Queen of the Scottish. Would I inflict cruel knife the same?
              I had long accepted that I, coward and criminal, both, would follow any of my master’s bidding from fear, betrayal and fright as long as there was no conflict to any another: there had not been. Conflicts of masters’ mean confusion and death.
              Marlowe made no attempt to prevent the execution of my message; he had forsaken his right to prevention by indifference, plotting, or pride. But what plot could he use to negate the destructive message that was in the letter unless he already knew its contents? He had fallen to fate as a friend. My friend? My shame: poor end for Logic, he who had lived fighting in Aristolean splendour now died of diseased heart.
              The letter was now kept in the stitching of my doublet, its safety known only to Master Marlowe and I. I had planned to leave it in Cambridge in a hiding place when we returned, but once back within the security of Bene’t my thoughts were distracted. I decided, as a challenge, to climb as many as the apple trees as I could while they were still in blossom and before the fruit began to form and I would be forbidden. Day after day I ventured out with Negrito, sometimes in the company of the boys from Trinity Farm when they were fortunate enough to escape.
              Some of the trees were over forty feet and from the highest, Cambridge and the Cam stretched out followed by the pink and white blossoms of the fruit trees until the dark borders of forest, elm, oak and beech beyond. These were the forests into which we did not venture, there were prowling wolves within or so we boys were told; the snarl of which was likely to make tree climbing an easy exercise. So we ran close to see if we could hear their baying; so we could feel our fear, and show bravado. Fear I had already; at games of dare I always pretended, then won.
I did not know when the letter went missing, time for a boy does not exist: it did not for me. I had forgotten about Mendoza, the two-day travel to London with Master Marlowe to see Walsingham, or the threat of death I had been placed under should the letter not be delivered. Happiness had returned to Cambridge, as had I.
              “Vinicio, do not worry,” Marlowe told me affably, “it has probably fallen somewhere in this room. I will find it for you.” His rooms had lost order; parchment covered with his scribble lay on every surface. He was unconcerned, either with the letter, with which he was probably pleased that I could not deliver, nor the state of the rooms, as he knew where everything was.
I could see why, if the letter was destroyed, we would all be faithful to our words. He to I, that he had supported me; I to Mendoza, that I had tried to deliver the letter and Mendoza that he had started to plot but had failed through accident no fault attributed to him.
              I knew that Master Mendoza would not accept this; he would not accept failure from me. I had seen that in his eyes I was only useful alive if I could be made useful, otherwise I would be better to him dead. While England and Spain were not at war Mendoza had free run and I knew his agents were everywhere.
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Chapter 8

              Never did feet fly so fast or so accurately, they no sooner hit the ground then lifted and fell again. I looked for Marlowe and could not find him. I thought he must have been imprisoned. My feet carried me out of the palace gate and into the stables. I knew how to ride now, but not to saddle a horse so it was fortunate there was one waiting: I stole it.
              He that smiles merciful friendship and orders the unjust executioners knife must thrice be the traitor, once a traitor to the victim, another to justice and finally to themselves for the hypocrisy of revenge; it would be Marlowe who would suffer in hell for sending the guards. I would be free and seek my homeland of the streets.
              There were tears of loss in my eyes as I rode towards London: my first thought had been to hide in the biggest city I could find. There were tears of fear in my eyes as I looked back beyond sight to the palace I had left imagining my pursuers: would they follow, catch and torture? There were tears of frustration as I arrived at the gates of London, dismounted, tied, and released the horse from my bond, care, and friendship: he was the only living connection I had with my life at the palace. I left him standing at the ostler; he was marked and would be returned to the stables.
              Running was pointless now. I was wearing palace clothes. I exchanged my doublet with a street urchin too ignorant to know what a poisoned chalice it may become; if the guards stopped him he would be taken to The Tower and execution in my place. I did not wish harm to others. I did not want to die; the street urchin would not last the year in such days of the plague.
              The boy’s rough jerkin scored against my skin and the once common fleas that inhabited it stung in such a manner I had become unaccustomed to. If I were to survive on the street, I would do so as a street child once more.
              That night I slept upon the pavement. The night was brittle with cold and I wondered how many were as I, cold, desperate and lonely: punished by God.
              I slept in a street filled with old crumbling wooden houses. The morning brought death to the streets; many had died in the night. A child, at least two seasons younger than myself walked over my sleeping form awakening me. She was almost naked having thrown her shawls from her tortured body. She had come from the house in whose doorway I had been sleeping. She smelt of death, she was breathing the air of death. The black bulbous masses showed clear across her shoulder, she stumbled.
              I knew the girl was alone. I knew she would die within the hour. I crossed myself. The protestant God had eluded me, perhaps my sign would buy me grace enough for release from the disease; I did not think so. I would not survive on the streets of London.
              Everywhere I looked I could crosses in blood red painted on the doors, corpses young and old littered the street. It was a cursed street I had found to sleep in. A rat followed the girl from the house, its mouth covered in blood: curiosity made me wonder what it had been eating: disgust told me I did not want to know. The truth of Marlowe’s good and bad angel was averted when the girl stumbled against the house opposite and fell. I wanted to go and help her; I knew I could not, should not and did not. She would die alone: I let her. I too by the rules of my own integrity was thrice cursed.
              I had to leave the streets of London. The city that had seemed so open and green just a few months before was now filled with pestilence and vermin.
              The country was the safest place in times of plague but in the country I was not safe; in the country I appeared as a foreigner. I looked like an outsider; even the mud from the gutter would not clothe the foreign blood and make good my disguise.
              I had few options now I knew Marlowe was not my friend: only he had known about my treachery. I stumbled a little. I knew of only one place where I was not a traitor. I would throw the dice in the air tempt its hazard as spinning it would fall upon the table. I did not have a letter to deliver, or a ship to take to but I walked as fast as I could until I reached the Spanish Ambassador’s house: I would ask for mercy and for protection from the man who called himself my father. I would go to Mendoza and appeal for his protection.
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Chapter 10

              Lady Fortune was as old as The Fates but thrice as vulnerable: once for vengeance, twice for hate and thrice for Love.
               Fair Lady Fortune Vinicio loves you, worships you and dotes on you. Lady fortune is the wife of Chronos: she has time to herself.
              But love to an unknown God is only sycophancy and Lady Fortune hates that.
              Vinicio dreamt of living in idle splendour. Vinicio was like all who are idle and want not to work through idleness, cannot work through vanity, or will not work because of pride. Such people always look to the dice, to Fortune: to you my Lady.
              But to turn to Lady Fortune for greed is to be inspired by lustful empty revenge and Lady Fortune hates revenge.
              Lady of Fortune, know that Vinicio hates the world for its neglect. Vinicio deserves a better life.
              Poor Vinicio, he does not know that Lady Fortune will not help those whom hate.
              Lady Fortune, hear my submission to your mercy; Vinicio is in need of your help, the Egyptian travellers have taken his will and the nomads have captured his spirit.
              Lady Fortune I worship you once so that you may not feel the vehemence of my vengeance on life and desert me because of it.
              Poor Vinicio, yet may his story end happily…
              But to worship Lady fortune and play life on the fall of the last dice is the ultimate desperate hope of the fallen; they are like hungry vermin wishing for manna falling from heaven.
              Vinicio was no longer Hero. Vinicio was a vicious vengeful fallen boy. Vinicio was spiteful. Vinicio had become a thief on the street once more scavenging for food and attention. The world had treated him badly and he would do the same to it in return.
              Vinicio was a warrior of hate, of retribution and of insolence. Vinicio was the agent of Lucifer, of Judas, and of the accursed accused souls of naked betrayal who had, like Faustus, sold everything to the devil.

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