Saffron & Scarlett
Ten Years Later
Thathadto be the last of the squash, I mused, burying my toes deep into the rich soil of the Abbey garden. If any others had escaped my notice, perhaps they deserved to remain where they’d grown. They would only become a meal for the next hungry creature to wander past, and I was more than satisfied with that. I heaved the wicker basket onto my arm, where it groaned from the weight of the ripe vegetables I’d spent the afternoon collecting. My mouth began to water when I imagined Sister Evetta’s roasted, saffron-dusted squash, then reminded myself to make sure our saffron supply was not too low. I wasn’t sure if I could survive a harvest feast without it.
As I stepped gingerly between rows of leafy vines, a small green moth landed on the handle of my basket. I stopped and smiled, slipping a finger beneath its delicate, furry body and lifting it to my face. Not one of the Huntress moths that were regular guests at my bedroom window, with their elegant spots and tails, but a beautiful little creature nonetheless.
“You are a bit late in the season, my friend,” I admonished. “The hard work was done by your brothers and sisters months ago.” The moth just twitched its feathery antennae, then fluttered away on a breeze that ruffled the errant curls sticking out from under my kerchief.
“You keep talking to bugs that way and folk will think you’ve gone mad,” someone called across the garden. I turned toward the gate and smiled at the sight of Will leaning against a fencepost, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. It had been over a week since I’d last seen him, and it was clear he’d been spendingmost of that time outdoors, training for the Prince’s Tournament. Gauze covered the bowstring calluses on his fingers, and his skin, normally ruddy, was now sun-kissed. My heart even dared to flutter as the wind teased his dark golden hair, which fell to his shoulders in tangled waves.
“The bugs are quite innocent,” I said as I walked toward him. “If folk think me mad, it is because of my association withyou, Will Scarlett.” He put a hand to his chest and stumbled back a pace, as if I had wounded him. From across the garden, Sister Anna looked up and planted her gloved hands on her hips.
“Miss May’s got work to do, you vagrant boy!” she shouted, voice light with subdued affection.
Will just laughed and called back, “That’s why I’m here, my darling Anna!” He opened the gate and pulled the basket of squash off my arm as I came through, then greeted me with a chaste kiss on the cheek. I took the wildflowers he offered and held them under my nose.
“You came with flowers, but not my—” Before I could finish, he reached into his pocket and took out a drawstring linen bag. The scent of fresh, honey-roasted almonds hit me like a thunderclap and my stomach rumbled.
“I always know how to make my girl happy, don’t I?” Will said, playfully dangling the bag in front of me. I snatched it from him and slipped it into my apron pocket as we walked toward the Abbey’s main building.
“On a day this warm, not having to carry that basket is making me happier than anything else,” I laughed, pulling my kerchief off and using it to wipe the sweat from my face and neck. It was unusually hot for that strange time between summer and autumn, when the earth felt like it was coming home to rest after a weary day.
“Were you in the infirmary this morning?” asked Will in a rather conspiratorial tone.
“No, I was blessedly given an entire day in the garden,” I replied. “Somehow, all the boatmen in Nottingham managed to keep themselves out of trouble last night.”
“Well, it’s a good thing,” Will chuckled. I raised an eyebrow as I waited for him to finish his dramatic pause. “Because someone set every hog in the bailey loose onto the tournament grounds last night. They tore it to pieces, and two of my father’s men were bitten. I thought they might’ve ended up in your care, but I’m glad you had the day off.”
“Oh, your father must be in astate,” I breathed, covering my mouth and trying desperately not to laugh.
“He’s had every watchman in the city down there all morning fixing it up, shoveling hog shit,” Will laughed. “Good thing His Royal Highness won’t be back until tonight.”
“Did they catch the mastermind behind this dastardly hog liberation front?” I giggled. “Or is he blaming this one on the notorious ‘Robin Hood’ as well?”
As much as I feared the Devil of Arden, I couldn’t deny the somewhat sick pleasure I got from the constant petty crimes and mischief committed against Nottingham’s lawmen in his name. The preoccupation with Robin Hood allowed Will some respite from his father’s demands, and a chance of slipping away to come visit me. Besides that, it gave me the rare opportunity to wallow in petty spite, since there was no one I hated more than Sheriff Osric Scarlett.
“Well,” said Will slowly, glancing around to make sure none of the Sisters were nearby, “that’s the thing.” He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his pocket and passed it to me. Carefully, I lifted one corner, if only to confirm my suspicions.
“Will!” I chided. “You can’t steal official Reward posters!”
“My father won’t want this one up,trust me. It was found in the royal box on the tournament grounds. Open it.” He guided me into the shadow of the Abbey as I unfolded the page and let a small hiss slip between my teeth.
The Reward poster was for the Devil of Arden. Thankfully, no face had been drawn—I sometimes wondered if I was the only person who had ever seen him—but an extensive list of his misdeeds was printed at the bottom, alongside a generous sum being offered for information leading to his capture. In the upper corner of the poster, however, was a short poem scrawled in bright red ink, the handwriting messy and sharp:
No crown for the pig on the throne,
No mouse for the snake in the grass,
No bone for the hound on their chain,
‘Til he pulls the pig’s head from his ass.
Beneath the poem was a crude sketch of a pig standing upright, a crooked crown on his head, doing something unspeakably vulgar to a dog wearing a Sheriff’s badge. Around the pig’s neck, performing some sort of erotic strangulation, was a snake in an Archbishop’s hat.
“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy,” I sighed. “Surely your father doesn’t believe this was faerie trickery? It seems like a puerile boatman prank.”
“I would think so too, except the poster was stuck right to the Prince’s throne with another one of those arrows—the ones with the red fletching. My father’s taken them to every fletcher in the city, every butcher and hunter and trapper too. None of them know what type of bird the feathers come from, and they aren’t dyed or painted either.”
