The Princess and the Huntsman (8 page)

“Do that for a moment or two more, then rub the bowl with tallow and put the bread in it. Cover it with a clean cloth and put it by the hearth. Not too close, mind you. The bread will rise and then you will knead it again.”

“Again? But my hands tire.”

“Come, come, girl. You are sturdier than that. I have to go fish for our supper. Do you follow my instructions and we shall bake when I return.”

She was left with no choice, as Tom spun on his heel and strode confidently from the cottage. Brandywyn set to it, clumsy though the movements were.

About two hours later, Tom returned with several plump trout hanging from a string. “Supper!” he announced.

Brandywyn was startled from her kneading and the risen dough fell on the hard-packed dirt floor at her feet. It was of little concern to her. She reached to pick it up again.

“Nay!” Tom threw the fish into a basin and hurried over to her. “What goes here? You must start over! We cannot eat bread with dirt upon it.”

Brandywyn’s face heated. “‘Tis but a little dirt. See? I shall dust it away.” The floppy mass did not react well to her dusting attempts.

“Brandywyn…” He drew her name out like a building thunderclap. “How many times have you dropped the bread on the floor?”

To tell the truth or not? She eyed the bread, seeing bits of black dirt sprinkled throughout. A pebble fell down onto the floor with a tick. Lying a little might get her off lightly. “Twice?”

“Twice? Only twice?”

“Well… thrice. But only thrice! Truly!”

He took the bread from her hands and tossed it out the door. “That is naught but refuse for the midden, Brandywyn. A little dirt never hurt a man, but I do not wish to eat pebbles and mud with my food.”

Brandywyn wiped her hands on her skirt, and looking down, realized that it was filthy again, with flour and tallow stains. It was his fault if the bread had gone bad! He insisted that she create it herself, knowing full well that princesses did not cook. Had she not told him the same? If ‘twas ruined, ‘twas no fault of hers. She rounded on him, hands on her hips. “Serves you right, you addlepated nitwit! I told you I could not cook and yet you insisted. Eat your trout without bread. I do not care. The task is beneath me.”

“No, Brandywyn, what lies beneath your angry mien is your untarnished bottom. I shall see to that and right away!”

Immediately, Brandywyn covered her bottom with both hands. “No! Do not spank me! For every spank, you will feel ten blows of the whip, I vow!”

His frown was deep and he took two strides to reach her, grabbing her by both arms and giving her a little shake. “No more of your threats, Brandywyn. You and I both know that I shall not fall under the whip for saving you from harm—even harm you bring upon yourself. Go and kneel next to the bed.”

“Tom, you only build the case against yourself. My father will have none of your ‘mistaken identity’ excuses. He
will
punish you!”

“I shall take my chances.” When she did not cooperate, he muscled her over to the bed and pressed upon her shoulders until she was kneeling next to the low platform. Tom pressed her face into the mattress lightly, and stood up next to her. Brandywyn heard some rustling and then the sound of his belt buckle. She turned her head to see what he was planning and saw him wrapping the belt around his fist, buckle inward, but leaving a doubled length out. This he snapped against his palm and Brandywyn jumped and made to get up. She did not want to feel a belt on her bottom again!

“Nay, stay, girl. Take what you deserve.”

“I do not deserve it. ‘Twas only a little dirt!”

“A little dirt, some pebbles, and perhaps we have broken teeth for dinner!” he countered. A moment later, he lifted her skirts and exposed her soft behind. Brandywyn struggled, but his hard, strong hand held her down against the bed. She was his captive and now he was going to thrash her. But the first strike of the belt was not so hard. She peeped, but more from the surprise than from the hurt. The second blow was but a bit harder, but the belt made a loud snap when it connected with her flesh. The third spank, however, was forceful, and Brandywyn yelped as a burning sting swept over her bottom cheeks.

“Now you are ready for the punishment,” Tom told her. “I shall not go easy on you. You have defied me too often.”

With that, he struck her half a dozen times in quick succession. Brandywyn gasped and cried out. The belt was much worse than his hand or the hairbrush. She could see him swinging the objectionable leather out of the corner of her eye, and it looked like he was taking full advantage of his position standing over her. More strokes added fire to her behind, and more again. Her bottom was on fire, molten fire, and the pain radiated through her whole middle and up to her ears, which burned with shame and frustration. It had been wrong of her to try to give Tom dirty bread. The first time she had dropped it, she realized that it was ruined, but she spitefully decided that he deserved the disgusting food for his mistreatment of her. She would not deign to eat it, of course. But the small pebbles and bits of mud only enhanced her revenge on him. After a few more minutes of kneading, the bread
accidentally
dropped off the table again. She was mightily satisfied and pleased with her handiwork. The bread making went on like that, adding glee to her chore. Of course, then Tom had to catch her doing it again and all of Hades had been released against her. Now she was paying the price.

Tom’s lecture did not help matters. “You will take more care when preparing food, Brandywyn. You will mind my instructions and keep the food clean and edible.”

Her bottom was screaming. Each new blow added to her misery tenfold. She might deserve it, but she would not take it easily. Brandywyn struggled against his hold, tears brimming over her eyelids. “Stop!” she cried. “I shall be more mindful! Please, Tom!”

Tom applied the belt to her bottom and down both tender thighs. The pain jarred her through and through and she began to cry in earnest. “You will complete your chores with greater care in the future, Brandywyn, for I shall not find it amiss to leave you naked and red-arsed for all the hours of the day.”

Horror jolted Brandywyn. Surely he would do no such thing. Oh, the humiliation of such base treatment! Spankings were enough, but to be treated like the meanest slave would be anathema. “I will do better! Please, Tom, do not treat me that way!”

“I want to hear you say you are sorry, Brandywyn.” He smacked her another half dozen times and her sobs got louder and her wails more forlorn. She wished with all her heart she could behave like a strong, royal, stalwart princess and take her beating without a flinch. But, oh! The pain was a torture!

“I am sorry! I am so, so sorry! I shall never do it again, Tom. I promise!”

“Hm…” His blows got somewhat lighter, though they kept falling for a long, agonizing minute. Brandywyn was a blubbering mass of jelly when he relented.

Invisible flames scorched her entire backside and down her thighs. Brandywyn sobbed and cried into the bed’s blanket. She truly was sorry for her behavior. It had been reprehensible. Tom had been kind to her, if rather demanding. “I-I-I am sorry, Tom.”

He sat upon the bed and pulled her up into his arms. Her peasant’s skirt scratched her tender bottom as it fell back into place, but still, sitting in his lap was not so bad. Tom pulled her in close to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. As he stroked her hair, he murmured nonsense words to soothe her. It worked. Her tears soon dried and her sniffles abated. No longer did the sobs shake her to the bone.

“Behave, Brandywyn,” he reminded her. “I shall show you the cost of your misbehaviors every time you try them.”

“Aye, sir. I shall do better.” At least, Brandywyn hoped she could do better. Who knew how long she would be stuck here with Tom Huntsman. Since she had no intention of saying she was other than a princess, it could be a very long time indeed.

Tom supervised her making the bread, moving around the cottage for a bit and then sitting down to sharpen his arrows. Brandywyn dutifully followed the instructions she knew and upon learning how to bake the loaf, she was transported by the delicious smell as it cooked.

When the bread was finally brought to the table, Brandywyn stared at it as if it was a magical thing. She made it herself! Princess Brandywyn of Ring had baked a loaf of bread.

Tom beamed at her from across the table, where they were enjoying their trout, dandelion salad and the amazing bread. “You did well, Brandywyn. I knew you could do it.”

“I did do it,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I did!” Preening, she went on. “It should be no surprise to you that a princess is an exceptional person; even under the meanest of conditions, she will rise above the peasantry.”

His smile disappeared entirely. “You are too arrogant by half, Brandywyn.”

She ate a bit more supper. “I say only the truth.”

“Being obnoxious will not work with me, young lady. I shall not bow to your regal majesty. You are a girl, a girl with a poor attitude. I shall fix that and return you to your home a better person than you were when you left.”

Brandywyn was too pleased with herself to argue further, so she let it drop.

The day drew to a close and, wearing only Tom’s shirt, she climbed back into the big bed. She rather liked the idea of sharing it with him, though Brandywyn had no intention of telling him so. But, under these trying circumstances, his warm, stalwart presence was a calming influence on her battered nerves.

She was asleep in no time, but Tom came into the bed somewhat later, and it woke her slightly. Semi-slumbering, she felt him pull her up against the front of his body and hold her tight, like two spoons in a drawer. It was comforting to have him there, so she dropped back into a deep sleep.

* * *

The next day dawned much as the first, but this time, Tom roused her from sleep just as the dawn lightened the sky. Brandywyn was much affronted. Princesses did not rise so early. They attended balls and fetes until the wee hours and then slept until noon. But Tom’s schedule did not work like that, and so Brandywyn was pressed into that mold. It seemed that she was to be treated like a peasant in all ways.

Brandywyn dressed a bit carelessly, and braided her long hair loosely. She was too sleepy to put much effort into it. Tom snorted at her unkempt appearance, but did not say anything. Instead, he led her out to the cattle shed and to the cow.

“Now,
Princess
, you will milk a cow.”

“What! You cannot imagine that I will deign to touch this beast.”

The cow lowed, as if insulted.

“Aye, you will. Have you no memory of sweet milk from the cow’s udder? Did your mother never give you a squirt as a child, teasing you while teaching you to milk?”

Brandywyn was shocked. The very idea! Why, she hardly knew that cows had udders! “Absolutely not. My mother was Queen of Ring—until she died. She never milked a cow in her life.”

“Perhaps ‘tis time the daughter learned, in that case.” He picked up a milking stool and approached the cow. The cow chewed its cud, seemingly uninterested in the goings-on at her middle.

“This is Fancy,” Tom told Brandywyn. “She is my milk cow. I milk her each morning at about this time, and she rewards me with milk, sweet cream, and if I labor a bit, butter. Fancy is well-loved.”

“You love your cow?”

He laughed. “She is nicer to me than you are.”

Brandywyn blushed. She knew when she was being teased. “You can have your cow, then. I have no need of you.”

“Ah, but my dear, you do have need of me. Until you remember who you are, you need me to feed, clothe, and house you. Unless you plan to find another group of brigands who will treat you with the same tender care.”

The thought made her shudder. No, even though he was difficult and stern, Tom was a much better choice than being stolen by ruffians again. Apparently, he could read the disgust on her face because all he did was nod and take a seat on the milking stool and place a big bucket under the cow’s udders.

“This is how you milk a cow.”

Brandywyn stood there, listening to his lesson and the steady swish, swish of the milk flowing into the bucket. He made it seem so effortless. It was a task even the most menial of laborers could do.

“Now you try,” he told her, standing.

Absolutely confident in her ability, Brandywyn took the seat he had so recently vacated. The cow was bigger from this angle, her back hoof too near Brandywyn’s foot. Brandywyn moved her foot away, but nearly knocked over the milk bucket.

“Here now!” Tom said, righting the bucket. “Take care or all our work will be for naught.”

Red-faced but undaunted, Brandywyn stuck out her chin stubbornly and reached for the cow’s udders. Her fingertips brushed the distended flesh and she recoiled. It was warm and soft. It felt intimate and she thought the cow should feel abused. But Fancy simply lowed as though to say,
get on with it
. Gritting her teeth, Brandywyn reached for the udders again, and gave them a gentle squeeze, much as she had seen Tom do. Nothing happened. Frowning, she gave the udders a more forceful squeeze. Fancy moved her back feet a bit and her tail flicked impatiently.

“Finger by finger,” Tom reminded her. “Play her like an instrument.”

“Like an instrument…” Brandywyn whispered to herself. Remembering her harp helped and she squeezed the udders with a different stroke. This time, two steady streams of milk fell into the bucket. “Aha!”

“Very well,” Tom said, praise in his voice. “Do continue. She has considerable more to give.”

Brandywyn hummed a favorite song to herself as she worked and that helped keep her rhythm steady as the milk bucket filled. When it seemed that Fancy had no more to give, Brandywyn stood and patted the cow on its broad side. “Thank you, cow.”

Tom took the bucket and they moved back to the cottage. Once inside, they broke their fast again as the milk and cream separated nearby.

“Next, my girl, butter.”

“Butter?”