The second book, also disguised as a religious tome, was a play called Burlador de Sevilla,The Trickster of Seville, by Tirso de Molina. The frays had discussed it months before. Fray Antonio had dismissed it as "tripe." Its rogue was a despoiler of women named Don Juan, who tricked them into becoming his lovers then abandoned them. As with Naughty Justina, the play about Don Juan was on the Inquisition's banned book list.
A treasure fleet smuggler had obviously sold these two libros indecente as religious works. If the Inquisition got their hands on either seller or buyer, they would be in major trouble. Not only were the books themselves contraband, the false covers represented serious blasphemy.
Someone summoned the coachmen and servants, who had been tossing coins, to the house. They were to pick up the trunks and load them onto the coach. Their footfalls faded as they went to the house.
Should I get out of the coach and run? But run where? I asked myself. The answer was made for me. The coach door opened, and someone got in. I squeezed back as far as I could, barely breathing.
The carriage had barely shifted when the person stepped aboard, so I knew the person wasn't a grown man. Through a split in the fur cover I could tell from dress hem and shoes that a female had entered. A hand suddenly entered beneath the curtain—no doubt in search of Don Juan. The hand found my gaping face instead.
"Don't scream!" I pleaded.
A shocked gasp filled the carriage, but it wasn't enough to alert the attendants.
I drew the curtain and stuck my head out. "Please don't shout. I'm in trouble!"
The very girl who'd interceded between me and the pock-faced boy with the whip gaped at me.
"What are you doing there?" she asked in stunned surprise.
I stared once more at her dark eyes, sable tresses, and high, fine cheekbones. Despite the danger I was speechless at her beauty.
"I'm a prince," I finally said, "in disguise."
"You're a lépero. I'm calling the servants."
As she grabbed the door handle, I showed her the two books I had found.
"Are these what you were looking for under the seat? Two deshonesto books banned by the Holy Office."
Her eyes widened with guilt and fear.
"Ay, such a beautiful young girl. It would be a pity if the Inquisition stripped the flesh from your bones."
She struggled for control, terror and rage at war with each other.
"They burn people at the stake for having books like these."
Unfortunately, she would not bluff.
"Blackmail me? How do you know I won't say the books were yours, and that you were trying to sell them to me. If I say that, you'll be flogged as a thief and sent to the northern mines to die."
"Worse than that," I said, "there's a mob outside hunting me for something I didn't do. Being a lépero, I have no rights. If you call for help, they'll hang me."
My fifteen-year-old voice must have rung with sincerity because her anger instantly faded and her eyes narrowed.
"How did you know the books are banned? Léperos can't read."
"I read Virgil in Latin and Homer in the Greek. I can sing the song that Die Lorelei sang to lure sailors to their doom on the rocks of the Rhine, the Sirens' song Odysseus heard bound to his mast."
Her eyes widened once more but then flared incredulously. "You lie. All léperos are ignorant, unlettered."
"I'm a bastard prince, I am Amadis de Gaul. My mother was Elisena who, at my birth, set me adrift at sea on a wooden ark with my father Perion's sword by my side. I am Palmerin de Oliva. I, too, was raised by peasants, but my mother was a princess of Constantinople who likewise concealed my birth from her ruler."
"You are insane. You might have heard these stories, but you cannot claim to read like a scholar."
Aware that silken ladies succumb to pity as well as flattery, I quoted Pedro, the street lad from Cervantes's play, Pedro, the Artful Dodger.
A foundling too I was, or "son of the stone,"
And no father had I:
No greater misfortune a man may have.
I haven't a notion where I was reared,
I was one of those mangy orphans
At a charity school, I suppose:
On a slum diet and scourgings in plenty
I learnt to say my prayers,
And to read and write as well.
Foundlings were called "sons of the stone," because they were displayed on slabs in a cathedral. There people could view and acquire them if they wished.
She continued with the next lines:
But I learned on the side
To snaffle the alms,
Sell cat for hare and steal with two fingers.
To my misfortune she knew not only her poetry, but the lépero's larcenous heart as well.
"Why are you in this coach?"
"I'm hiding."
"What crime did you commit?"
"Murder."
She gasped again. Her hand went to the door.
"But I am innocent."
"No lépero is innocent."
"True, señorita, I am guilty of many thefts—food and blankets—and my begging techniques may be questionable, but I've never killed anyone."
"Then why do they say you killed someone?"
"It is a Spaniard who killed them both, and it is his word against my own."
"You can tell the authorities—"
"Can I?"
Even at her innocent age she knew the answer to that one.
"They say I killed Fray Antonio—"
"Holy Maria! A priest!" She crossed herself.
"But he's the only father I've ever known. He raised me when I was abandoned and taught me to read, write, and think. I wouldn't hurt him; I loved him."
Voices and footsteps silenced my words.
"My life is in your hands."
I slipped my head back behind the curtain.
Trunks thumped on top of the coach, and it rocked as passengers climbed aboard. From the shoes and voices I was able to identify two women and a boy. From the boy's shoes, pants legs, and the sound of his voice I took him to be about twelve or thirteen and realized he was the boy who tried to hit me. Of the two women, one was quite a bit older.
The girl I had spoken to was addressed as Eléna. The voice of the older woman was commanding, an old matron.
The boy started to stow a bundle under the seat where I was hiding, and I heard the girl stop him. "No, Luis, I filled the space already. Put it under the other one."
Thank God the boy obeyed.
Luis sat next to Eléna and the two older women took the seat I was hidden under. Once the travelers were settled in, the coach started up the cobblestone streets. As the coach rumbled along, the older woman began questioning Eléna about remarks the girl had made earlier. The comments had angered the old woman.
I soon realized that Eléna was unrelated to the other passengers. The women were Luis's mother and his grandmother. I could not pick up the older woman's name.
As was the custom among genteel Spanish families, despite their age, a marriage between Eléna and Luis was already arranged. The union was deemed propitious, but it didn't seem that way to me. Among other things everything Eléna said irritated the old woman.