The Princess and the Huntsman

by Patricia Green

  “Shh. Shh, love,” Tarntra soothed, seeming to know her thoughts. “Take yourself in hand and give yourself a stern talking to. Leave all that anger behind and start a new day.”

  It was the same thing Tarntra had told her from the time the queen had died. Brandywyn had tried, she truly had, but she was so resentful about losing her mother so early in her life. Why had that happened to her? How could the gods be so cruel? She could not cope with the loss, and slowly, her behavior had changed into what it was now.

  Brandywyn felt doomed and alone in the prison she made for herself, a prison of tears and anger. It seemed hopeless.

  * * *

  Three mornings later, Brandywyn was called from her voice lesson to attend the king in his audience chamber. And so it began again. She knew it had to be a new suitor, some rich young man with a smiling face and nothing but an interest in her inheritance and the future throne of the Isle of Ring. Her father was persistent, if nothing else. Brandywyn pressed a hand to her flattened bodice and smoothed down the finely embroidered fabric of her gown. Mentally, she girded herself for another fight.

  Fully prepared to throw a tantrum, she pushed herself past her father’s guards and stalked into the room. A fellow stood on the red carpet, watching her as she made her way toward her father’s throne. It was the man from the peep hole! There he was, smiling at her, and yet she knew what lay beneath his showy costume, and the thoughtlessness of the way he took his pleasure with the maid, giving so little in return. Brandywyn’s anger and resentment was nearly overwhelming.

  She knew protocol forbade her from speaking first, but she was so tired of this game, she gave in to her inclination to stop the charade before it began. Sparing nary a further glance at this new suitor, she speared her father with her green gaze, hoping her eyes sparked as highly as her temper.

  “What goes, Father? I thought this matter settled!”

  Immediately, King Dent’s gray eyebrows drew together. “Castigate me not in my own house, Daughter. ‘Tis not polite.”

  Well, that was true enough. Brandywyn stood down, burying the rant she had prepared. Her father meant well, even if he was meddling. She turned to look at the nobleman nearby. Dark haired and broad-shouldered, he was a very handsome man. His brown eyes twinkled merrily, apparently unfazed by her temper tantrum. He gave her a slight nod, not the courtier’s bow she had expected. Who was this tall rascal?

  “Prince Gammon of Carlisle, may I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Brandywyn, my daughter.”

  The young man, perhaps eight or ten years older than Brandywyn, stepped to her and took her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles politely. His touch was not too intimate; she could find no fault in it, though she would have liked to. “Your Highness,” he said. His voice was a little higher in register than she had expected, but not unpleasant to the ear. “I am greatly honored to meet you.”

  Where was Carlisle? Brandywyn tried mightily to recall where that country lay. As she withdrew her hand, she remembered. It was on the neighboring continent, southward, and had several sea ports where the Isle of Ring and Carlisle did business together. It was a prosperous country, and a ripe apple for picking. However, Brandywyn had no interest in apples. Especially not this one, the prince of which was too attractive by half and selfish by half again.

  “Thank you. I am sorry, but I cannot say the same.”

  His eyes glittered. Was that merriment or anger?

  “Daughter!” chided Dent.

  “I have no interest in this prince,” she told the older man. “Nor any other prince, for that matter. I care not for this game and I shall not play it.”

  “Princess,” said Gammon of Carlisle. “I assure you ‘tis no game for me. I come bearing gifts and nothing but attentions worthy of your consideration.”

  He was a confident one, that was certain. “I hate to disappoint you, Prince Gammon, but I have no desire for gifts or attention. Leave me alone.”

  King Dent sighed. “I am sorry, Gammon. ‘Tis as I warned. She will not be moved.”

  “Perhaps in time, Your Majesty,” said the prince. “May I stay a while and make my effort?”

  Brandywyn’s father nodded, adding to her temper. What was he thinking, prolonging this farce! “I insist that you go!” she demanded.

  “‘Tis not your place to make this decision, Brandywyn,” King Dent told her sternly. “Aye, you may stay for a while, Prince Gammon. I give you leave to attend my daughter, but do not pester her o’er much. I shall not have her forced.”

  Prince Gammon’s smile was truly breathtaking, his white, white teeth twinkling in the torchlight. “Have no fear, Your Majesty. I wish to woo, not wound.”

  “Very well.”

  “Father! I do not want to be wooed! Tell him to leave!” She stamped one yellow-slippered foot. “I shall not be moved!”

  “Go to your room, Brandywyn, and do not fail to come to dine when ‘tis time. You will sit between Prince Gammon and me and share his wine cup. Do not embarrass me further.”

  Brandywyn felt her face heat with fury. Where was her choice now? Was this the time he would insist? “You break your promise to me, Father!”

  “I do not. I seek to entertain you with good company. Go now.”

  “Hmph.” She glared at Gammon for a moment, then stomped out of the room. We shall just see about the feast, she thought. I shall make such a hash of it, Father will never dare to force me to be civil again.

  Once more in her apartment, Brandywyn coaxed and cajoled Tarntra to go along with her plan. Although stern-faced and disapproving, Tarntra knew her place and grudgingly cooperated.

  When it was time for the midday meal, Brandywyn was ready. She wore her oldest, most threadbare dress, consisting of a food-stained bodice and a fully closed chemise across her ample breasts, hiding them effectively. Her skirt had grass and mud stains on the hem and her slippers fit poorly, making swish-tap noises as she walked. Her golden hair was disarranged and curls went this way and that, and she had colored her normally pink lips with blueberry juice, giving her fair complexion a corpse-like pallor. She hoped she looked truly frightful. Looking in the mirror, she saw such an unappealing woman, she almost relented and gave up the costume. The pang of conscience came and passed, however, and she squared her slender shoulders and flounced out of the room.

  Brandywyn was escorted to the dais by the appropriate nobleman, and seated between Prince Gammon and her father. If Prince Gammon saw anything amiss, he kept it to himself. King Dent, on the other hand, frowned mightily and bent to whisper in her ear.

  “Marry, I should take you over my knee for such despicable behavior, Daughter. You embarrass me before this company.”

  Dent had never spanked Brandywyn for any reason, so she knew the threat was hollow. She snapped back, “‘Tis what you earned for forcing me to this mockery.”

  He grumbled, but the food was served at that moment, and he set to it.

  Brandywyn was expected to share a large trencher with Gammon, as well as a ceremonial wine goblet. Normally, he would cut her food for her and offer her the choicest morsels. In this case, however, he completely eschewed good manners and left her to her own devices. At one point, they had each stuck their eating knife in a partridge breast and actually fought over who would get the meat. Brandywyn was appalled at being treated in such a cavalier manner.

  “You are a pig,” she told him, with a smile on her face, as though she was complimenting his soft, velvet doublet. “I shall never marry you.”

  “If I am a pig, you are a stubborn mule.” His smile was equally false.

  “Oh! How dare you!” She turned to her father, who was drinking his wine. “Did you hear that, Father? He called me a mule!”

  “Did he? No, I did not hear it.”

  “He did!” She put down her knife and reached for the wine goblet, intending to throw the claret into the prince’s face. However, the goblet was empty. He had drunk it all! Growling, she threw the goblet at him and rose from the tab
le, angered beyond belief. The two men exchanged words, but Brandywyn could neither hear them well nor did she care to know what they said. They were both horrible!

  As she stalked back to her room, she tried to think of what else she might do to thwart her father’s plans. An unattractive appearance did not do it. Insults only begot return insults. Refusal was met with false smiles and pretty sentiments. So what to do?

  Brandywyn had always enjoyed riding. It was a usual afternoon pastime for her, and sometimes she found peace at the seashore, not far from the palace grounds. Riding there might give her a chance to think and plan her next sally. She sent word to the stables to prepare her horse, Pontiffany, for riding.

  The gentlewomen who normally attended her, helped her change into her riding habit and tidy her appearance. Annoyingly, they had nothing but gossip and praise for the looks and manners of Prince Gammon. It made Brandywyn snap at them more than usual. They exchanged looks, and blessed silence was the result.

  It took a few minutes to get to the mounting block, but soon she was astride her gelding and riding. Brandywyn was followed at a short distance by two grooms, but that was something she could remedy, and had many times before. She spurred Pontiffany to a strong gallop and raced away from the pair, straight into the forest, and down a narrow pathway. Circling several times, she was sure they had no idea where she would go, so she made for her special, hidden spot on the far side of the sand dunes to the west of the forest. So far, they had never found her there, so she felt safe.

  At the beach, Brandywyn rode Pontiffany in the shallow surf for a while, enjoying the spray on her face. She let the wind blow her hair down and behind her like a long, golden flag, and smiled into the sun. The smell of the sea, so fresh and salty, tickled her nose and relaxed her shoulders. Anger melted away as though it had never been.

  Dismounting, Brandywyn walked Pontiffany a short way, stopping to pick up a starfish along the way. She looked at the little creature and smiled. It was a gentle animal and gentled her spirit in turn. Carefully, she put it in the surf, where, presumably, it would make it back into the sea safely. Shore birds peeped and pecked for sand crabs and Brandywyn stilled so as not to scare them away. She whistled a bird call and got answers in return. Seagulls cried in approval, searching for their next meal and hoping Brandywyn would provide it. Alas, she had nothing to feed to them, but that did not stop her from watching them wheel and circle, enjoying their presence.

  After a time, she went to the sheltered area between the dunes and sat in the sand. Brandywyn watched the waves come and go, come and go, like an endless, peaceful rhythm, soothing her soul.

  * * *

  Unknown to Brandywyn, a stranger sheltered behind her favorite sand dune, watching her stealthily. He had followed her through the forest, never losing his way. His horse was tethered a goodly distance away, and he made not a sound. All he did was watch her, admiring her loose golden hair and the way the sun sparkled in her green eyes, eyes now reflecting the green-blue sea. She was beautiful.

  He watched as she removed her shoes and stockings and lifted her riding skirts carefully. She laughed as she frolicked in the wavelets that spun upon the shore, making footprints in the sand. Her feet were dainty, her ankles trim, like the rest of her. Slender, but rounded in all the right places.

  The man wondered what she would do if he made himself known, but knew it would not be the right thing to do. It would frighten the maid and do harm to his cause. Instead he watched. He watched and dreamed about a time when he might share her joy with her. Although she had quite the reputation for being a termagant, he knew that he could soften her. He understood her reluctance to take a suitor. Perhaps she would be more inclined to take a lover. In some ways, this appealed to him; in others, it was abhorrent. ‘Twas best if Brandywyn remained chaste until she was betrothed… although with the right man…

  After a while of watching her, smiling at her smiles and breathing the fresh breath of the sea with her, he carefully made his way back to his horse and left her alone. Time and tenderness would heal her broken heart.

  Chapter Two

  A day later, Brandywyn once again evaded her guards and rode toward the same spot on the beach. She still had not come up with a way to thwart her father’s plans, but she thought she was coming close. Once at the beach, she knew she would have a revelation.

  But Brandywyn did not make it to the beach that day.

  As she was traversing the forest, amid the strong and pleasant scents of pine and cedar, she heard noises in the underbrush and from the branches of the trees nearby. These were not the sounds of birds twittering in the trees. In fact, the birds were eerily silent. Perhaps a bear was foraging, in which case, ‘twould be wise to make haste away from where she trotted along. It could also be something completely innocuous, like a raccoon hunting for grubs. But not in the trees. Worry etched a line between her golden brows and she urged Pontiffany to a faster pace.

  Suddenly men jumped from the trees and leapt up from the shrubs—armed men with masks tied over their eyes. Some were huge and hulking, threatening and growling.

  Brandywyn leaned deeply over her horse’s head and kicked him to try to get away, but it was for naught. The biggest, burliest of the men grabbed Pontiffany’s bridle just before the horse could rear. The animal snorted and whinnied, but did not fight. Brandywyn was trapped.

  She chose to be bold and not cower. A princess did not fall apart when faced with unexpected danger. It took great courage, but she yelled, “Cry off, knave, or face the wrath of King Dent!”

  The man had the gall to laugh. It was a deep, rich, throaty laugh, but chilling in its confidence. “Hail, Princess Brandywyn! Your father has no say in the matter. You are ours now, and a right splendid ransom we shall have for you.”

  Boldly, she tried again. “I shall have you hung from a tree and gutted, you scurrilous scoundrel!”

  “Certes, you might, but not this day.” He nodded to one of his men, who came to take Pontiffany, and the big man pulled her, kicking and screaming, from the saddle.

  “My guards will hear me scream! They will come to my aid! Leave be! Unhand me!”

  “You are a loud little thing, aren’t you? Hush now or I shall have to gag you.”

  Brandywyn knew that making noise would not summon her guards—they were too far away and she had lost them quite a while back. But perhaps a cottager would hear her screams and come to rescue her, or at least hurry off to the palace to get help. So, she continued screaming, kicking, attempting to bite. The burly man was having none of it. He easily subdued her, but she got one wicked kick in before he had her secured. He oomphed with the pain in his shin and his mouth tightened, but he did not let go.

  “Enough, Princess, or feel the flat of my hand!”

  Brandywyn screamed all the louder and hit him as hard as she could. If he beat her for it, well, so be it. She would take whatever he dealt and laugh in his face.

  But he did the most unexpected thing. He dragged her, still kicking and spitting, to a nearby fallen log and threw her over his lap. Securing her hands behind her back—with great effort, for she did not make it easy on him—he held her down firmly. Her skirts were raised, her drawers were lowered, and her bottom was bared. The fellows around all laughed at her as she squirmed and screamed. The leader threw his leg over her two and there was a pause filled with her yelling and calling him names.

  “Coward,” she screamed. “You would test my mettle? I dare you! I dare you to strike the princess of Ring!”

  “Right,” he said simply. “Never let it be said that… er… Smith cannot control one weak woman.”

  “Weak! Unhand me! I demand—”

  But Brandywyn’s protest was abruptly cut off by the sound and feeling of his hand coming down firmly on her rump. She squealed and squirmed harder. “Let me go!”

  Once again, Smith’s hand came down on her behind, and then again and again. Brandywyn was beginning to feel a small burning sensation and the humilia
tion of her position made her even angrier. None of her cries or protests made a bit of difference to Smith; he kept spanking her over and over again.

  Brandywyn had never felt anything like it. Her bottom was scorched, her pride manhandled. And still he struck her. She called him every rude name she had ever heard and hurled every epithet she could think of at him. But the spanking went on.

  “Stop struggling and calm down,” he said firmly, his hand falling sharply on her beleaguered fanny. “Mind!”

  “No! I hate you! Oh!”

  “I shall keep spanking you until you calm, Princess. I care not if you are bruised and battered by the end of the punishment.”

  Brandywyn realized that he was telling her the truth. He truly did not care if she was harmed. A cold frisson traveled up her spine. This danger was more than she was prepared to face. She would not back down, but perhaps she should take control by pretending to cooperate with him. Then, somehow, she would find a way to get free.

  Although she could not help her yips and squeals—his spanking hurt!—she did stop calling him names and tried not to squirm so much. “Stop!” she cried, ashamed that tears were beginning to form in her eyes. “Mercy! I beg you to stop!”

  He smacked her a few more times. “Will you stop fighting?”

  Oh, how she wanted to tell him no, for, indeed, she would never stop fighting. But she needed to be deceptive. “Aye! I shall heed your orders. Please, please stop!”

  Smith gave her one more resounding slap, right where her bottom and thighs made a cross, and the tears began to spill. Would he never cease? Was this hell she had fallen into? Once again, the gods had deserted her and she was on her own. Realizing that she had no one to turn to made her situation all the worse, and though she tried to stop her tears, there was no help for it.