The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

‘The papaya is not what it appears to be,’ the young man was saying.

‘How much?’ Benicio interrupted, desperate for anything to help him regain Luisa’s attention.

‘Ah...half a real.’

Benicio slapped his half-real into the young man’s hand, pulled a papaya from the bin and sliced his pocket knife through it to produce a bite-sized cube. ‘Sweet fruit for a sweet woman,’ he said, holding the cube to Luisa’s lips.

Luisa opened her mouth and the four young men watched reverently as she chewed. She gave a lusty swallow, then her review: ‘Absolutely delicious. Thank you, Señor.’

‘I am Rogelio,’ the young man said, bowing low.

‘Rogelio, it is your job to sell, not to woo young women!’ A grizzled old man appeared and, noticing Luisa, he stepped towards her. ‘Well, hello, my dear.’

Benicio jumped protectively in front of Luisa and the old man was left to survey Benicio instead. ‘You have a commanding stature, young man,’ he said with surprise. ‘Tall but strong, and with a long reach.’

‘And you have an aggressive manner, Señor,’ Benicio growled.

The man snarled, then cheered. ‘But coming from one so well made, I shall take it as a compliment!’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, former captain of the Niña.’

‘You sailed with Colón?’ asked Benicio incredulously.

‘I did, rest his soul.’ The old conquistador crossed himself mockingly. He studied Benicio’s arms. ‘I am in search of strong, able-bodied young men who would like to bring riches to the Kingdom of Spain,’ he said. ‘You, Señor, have the stature and reach of a fine rigger. Why not serve your country and get rich? There is more to be had in the New World than simply fruits.’

‘Thank you, Capitan Pinzón, but I serve Spain with the fruits of my mind.’ Benicio caught Luisa’s hand and they started back across the plaza with Armando and Carlos following behind.

As they walked, Benicio reminded himself that he was happy. Luisa’s hand was in his, after all, and she had not yet refused him. Still, a pall seemed to have been cast upon the day—an invisible foreboding that even the bright spring sun seemed unable to defeat.

‘It is no small thing,’ said Luisa, ‘to be invited to the West Indies. I have heard that men pay twelve ducados or more for the passage. And you have just been invited to make it at no cost.’ She peered up at him curiously, then pulled her hand free of his. ‘Well, look at us, gentlemen! We have returned to where we began.’

Indeed they had. There was Luisa’s driver waiting beside her carriage. The baker had sold his loaves, the fishmonger his fish and even the nearby butcher’s stall was almost empty of its offerings. ‘Look at that adorable little dog,’ Luisa said, pointing unknowingly at her failed understudy, who was lingering at the butcher’s stall. ‘She appears to be trying to choose between sausages.’

Benicio gave an ironic chuckle, though his brothers did not appear to understand the joke. Suddenly, the chimes of the noonday bells commenced. Benicio bowed his head, though he could not remember a word of the Sext hour prayer.

As he pretended to pray, he told himself not to be a fool. Women were capricious and nothing could be relied upon but the stars in the sky. Still no matter how many pretty young ladies batted their eyes at him, Benicio could think only of Luisa.

He was so consumed with thoughts of her that he did not even notice the conclusion of the bells. Nor did he perceive the quickening of Carlos’s breaths, or how his younger brother fumbled in the pocket of his jerkin. Before Benicio could do anything to stop him, Carlos had dropped to his knees before Luisa, removed his hat to the ground and was holding up a tiny silver ring.

‘Dear Luisa,’ he began, ‘my aromatic rose, every day you grow more...fragrant. The rain, the mist, the abundant dew...’

Overcome by nerves, Carlos shouted his professions, drawing a small crowd. ‘The light of dawn, the rosy glow of morning, your eyes, your lips, your beautiful...teeth. My dear...aromatic Luisa... Can I be your husband?’

There were a few giggles among the crowd. Then a terrible silence descended.

A lonely breeze blew past, tousling Luisa’s curls. ‘Oh, Carlos, do stand,’ she cried at last. She reached out her arms and lifted him to his feet.

‘I am honoured that you would ask me to be your wife,’ continued Luisa, ‘but I cannot accept your proposal.’

‘You...what?’

‘You are a fine young man, but I cannot become your wife.’

‘But our engagement can last as long as necessary,’ argued Carlos. ‘I am well into my apprenticeship at the Casa de Contratación. My knighthood shall be granted in only four short years.’

Carlos looked around desperately, as if searching for something to cushion the fall of his breaking heart. ‘Is it my physical form that does not appeal? I know that I am not handsome like Benicio, nor am I strong like Armando, but I—’

‘My dear friend, it is nothing to do with your physical form. I must consider the interests of my family. I am my father’s only daughter and you are...’

‘A second son,’ Carlos finished.

And there it was.

Carlos, like Benicio, had been born into that particular class of Castilian nobles whose names were respected, whose education was complete, but whose wealth, in the end, would have to be earned—the second sons.

Luisa placed a single kiss upon Carlos’s cheek. ‘I shall treasure your friendship always.’

Carlos dusted off his hat and placed it back on his head. ‘And I yours, my lady,’ he managed. ‘But this is not the end.’ He turned towards the cathedral.

Luisa sighed. ‘I think it is time to go,’ she said.

‘I shall accompany you to your carriage,’ said Benicio. ‘I believe you have something for me in it?’

‘Ah, yes—the gift!’

‘I believe I will join you,’ said Armando.

When they arrived at the carriage, Luisa retrieved a thin leather-covered tome and presented it to Benicio. ‘I have been meaning to give this to you for some time.’

Benicio’s eyes slid down her creamy neck, catapulted off her glorious bosom and finally settled upon the small book lying in her hands. ‘Amadís de Gaula?’

‘Did you not say that you were especially fond of it?’

‘I will savour the insights that lie upon each page of this magnificent work,’ Benicio said, bowing low.

‘Indeed he will,’ added Armando, ‘for he spends his days amassing knowledge, not glory or fortune.’

Luisa turned to Armando. ‘I shall await your swift return from service.’ Then she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Godspeed, noble warrior of Spain.’

‘I shall not return unless I have acquired wealth worthy of a marquesa,’ Armando proclaimed.

That was when Benicio saw it. There, beneath her practised expression—the flame of her life’s ambition: marquesa.

Benicio helped her into the carriage. ‘Enjoy the book, Benicio. Every page of it.’

She measured her nods equally between the two brothers as the small painted chariot moved away. Benicio and Armando were left staring into each other’s eyes.

The world seemed to press at Benicio’s sides. ‘I think I shall walk on my own for a while,’ Benicio told Armando and, without waiting for an answer, he turned and made long strides back across the plaza.

While he walked, he opened the book, flipped through its pages, and spotted a piece of paper wedged therein. He caught his breath as he beheld the image it contained—a charcoal sketch of a woman so beautiful she could not have been real. Her face was turned away from the artist, revealing her rounded profile, her long, beautiful neck, and a cascade of curls. A lump came into Benicio’s throat. It was a sketch of Luisa. He flipped the sketch over to discover a note written in her elegant, looping script: