The Princess and the Huntsman

by Patricia Green

  Brandywyn was crying freely when the spanking stopped. Her behind was on fire, aching and burning fiercely. She was sure she was black and blue. Perhaps she was abraded by his big, callused hand.

  “Well enou’,” he said, pushing her off his lap. Brandywyn landed in a heap and tangle of skirts, her legs splayed. The ground under her behind was cool, but grit and twigs irritated her stinging seat.

  Smith caught a bundle of rags, tossed by one of his henchmen, and he dropped it on Brandywyn’s lap. “Dress. I shall take your fine gown. It will fetch a pretty price.”

  She could never dress in these ragtag, dirty garments. “No!”

  Smith took a step toward her, and despite herself, she cringed. She prayed he would not hit her in the face. It did not seem to be his intent, however.

  “Do you want another spanking, Princess?”

  Reminding herself that she had to be cooperative, she shook her head.

  “Very well. Dress.” His deep voice brooked no argument.

  Brandywyn rose from the ground and looked around for a private place to shed her gown. She even took two steps toward a small clearing she spied past a few trees, but Smith grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Dress here.”

  “But your men!”

  “They are not trembling virgins, Princess. Your form holds nothing interesting to them.”

  That stung. Brandywyn had assumed that all these men were lecherous rapists and that the sight of her unclothed would make them so crazy that she would be set upon immediately. Apparently, she was not that pretty after all. Smith watched her, his dark eyes unfathomable behind his black mask.

  She looked at his men. The six stood silent, watching her along with their leader. “I… I cannot,” she stuttered. And truly, she could not. The laces of her bodice were behind her, properly tied there by one of her waiting women. A princess was never expected to disrobe by herself.

  Smith growled.

  “The laces,” she told him. “I cannot reach them.”

  “Pah,” he mumbled. “Turn.”

  She did and her taciturn captor unlaced her points. Cooling air swept over her back, right through her sheer chemise. Brandywyn blushed furiously as she dropped her costly garments in the dirt. Making to put the rags over her chemise and drawers, Smith stayed her hand, and gestured. “Those, too.”

  “But I shall be naked!”

  His smile was feral. “Verily.”

  Hesitating, Brandywyn bit her lower lip. It was almost too much to bear.

  “Do it, or I shall do it for you,” Smith said.

  Brandywyn had already suffered his hands on her person; she would not accept more of the same. Instead, she rallied her courage and took off the rest of her garments. She had never been unclothed in the woods before, and in some ways it was new, different, illicit, but those ways were far outmatched by the deep embarrassment she felt as the men watched her avidly.

  Quickly, she pulled the scratchy rags onto her body. They were torn, dirty, coarse, smelly, everything she hated, but they covered her.

  “Well enou’,” Smith pronounced as he grabbed her around the middle. Once again, Brandywyn kicked and struggled, but Smith caught a rope tossed by one of his men and quickly tied her hands and feet. She almost got a kick toward his groin, but he grunted and avoided her strike easily by turning his thigh inward.

  “Shall you be gagged also, Princess? Or will you cease your screeching?”

  A gag would make her feel strangled. She stopped struggling. “I shall be quiet.”

  “Good.” With that single word, Smith grabbed her and tossed her over his horse, face down. Brandywyn’s air left her lungs with a whoosh, and her discomfort was only just begun. Smith mounted the horse, sitting tall and imposing in the saddle, and ordered his men to be off. He led the way through the trees, but Brandywyn couldn’t raise her head to tell where they were going, nor squirm around to spy their path. To do so would mean a perilous fall from the horse. Instead, she tried not to cry, and prayed that her father would soon come looking for her.

  The day wore on, but they never left the forest. They passed over deer trails and through the deep woods, the men making small-talk or remaining silent for long stretches. Brandywyn was terribly uncomfortable, headachy, weary, and hungry. She had eaten nothing since the noon meal, and since that had been shared with that dreadful Prince Gammon, the food had been like rotten grain in her mouth. She ate little and left quickly.

  When it was nearly full dark, Smith told his men to stop and make camp in a small clearing. Although the big man dismounted, he left Brandywyn dangling. She thought maybe she could squirm down, and now that the horse had stopped, she might not get trampled in the process. But the horse was a tall one and it seemed like a long way down, from her upside-down perspective. Still, she wriggled a bit, testing the feeling of slipping off the horse slowly. Unfortunately, she wriggled a bit too much and slid right down the side of the horse rapidly. Her tied feet couldn’t support her and she landed smack on her bum with a soft cry as her bottom smarted from her earlier spanking and falling on the hard dirt.

  “What’s this? So eager for our company, Princess?”

  “Unbind me.”

  “I had planned to do so, but I do not care for commands. I give the orders around here.”

  Brandywyn was certain of that. Smith had a commanding air… perhaps too commanding. And his speech was cultured, educated. He might be a noble down on his luck and fallen in with bad company. It mattered little to Brandywyn; she wanted her freedom. To that effort, she swallowed her pride and tried to appear meek. “Please?”

  Dark eyes twinkling behind his mask, he grinned. “Much better, m’lady. I shall untie you.” As he approached, he added, “But if you give me so much as a hint that you will be causing trouble, I shall tie you and leave you that way through the course of our journey.”

  Nodding, Brandywyn held out her arms for him to loosen. It was such a joy to have her hands free again! She rubbed her wrists vigorously. They were slightly chafed by the rope, but nothing that would not go away in a few hours. It felt so good, she almost smiled at Smith as he unwrapped her tied ankles. Almost.

  “I need a chamber pot,” she told him imperiously, once she was freed.

  He chuckled as he stood. “I am no ladies’ maid to do your bidding. Use the forest like the little beast you are.”

  Brandywyn’s face heated with a combination of anger and embarrassment. Use the forest indeed! A princess did not pee in the forest.

  “I demand—”

  “There you go again,” he interrupted. “Making demands.” Walking up very close to her, he said quietly. “I am the one to make demands here, Princess. I am the only one. Best you understand that clearly. I shall brook no arguments with you. Go piss in the forest, but do not go far and do not tarry. I shall go after you, do I think you are trying to escape. If I catch you with your skirts hiked, ‘tis no matter to me.”

  His size was intimidating, the softness of his voice held an edge that was frightening. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t rape her at the first opportunity, or give her to his men to do so. I’faith, ‘twas the likely thing.

  “Aye, Smith. I shall return shortly.”

  He nodded. “Go.”

  Stumbling off in her bare feet, over rocks and twigs, Brandywyn found a small group of shrubs that seemed like a concealed enough spot. As she did what she needed to do, she contemplated her situation. She was deep in the woods, far from anywhere she had ventured before. She did not know the way back to the royal park and the palace. It was possible for her to run, though ‘twould be hell on her naked feet, but where would she go? Hiding in the woods, falling prey to animals, hunger, thirst, and other depredations seemed like a foolish choice and certainly not better than trying to cajole her way into Smith’s good graces. Perhaps she could get information from him about their whereabouts, and glean what direction she might follow. If she could convince him to let her ride, she would be in a much stronger positi
on.

  “Princess!” It was Smith calling from the camp. “I shall come to fetch you, do you not appear as I count to three.”

  Brandywyn quickly stepped into the pathway and toward the encampment. “No need to fetch me, Smith. Here I am.”

  “Good. Now sit on that log and be still.” He pointed to a fallen log several feet from the new, smoky fire.

  Although it was uncomfortable to her bottom, she sat, watching the men make the camp comfortable, rough as it was. They brought out dried meats and cured sausages, cheese and hard breads. Someone had a few bottles of wine and they passed those around as they ate. No one offered Brandywyn anything. Her mouth watered as she watched each morsel of the fare be eaten. She was so hungry, but she was no mendicant, begging for her daily bread.

  Smith, observant as always, saw her discomfort. “Hungry, m’lady?”

  Although she hesitated, she finally shook her head. “No.”

  “Ah. More’s the pity. I shall have to eat your portion myself, lest it spoil.”

  Stifling a groan, Brandywyn watched him slowly chew and swallow the last of the cheese, the last bite of bread, the last slurp of wine. A crumb stuck in his beard for a moment before he brushed it away. Her stomach growled loudly.

  “There’s a bit more sausage left,” Smith showed her, passing the garlic-scented cured meat under her nose. It was so tempting to snatch it from his hands and gobble it down.

  Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her father’s dining hall, with the trenchers full of meats and sturdy vegetables with gravy, sweet and savory puddings steaming on the platters.

  Smith laughed and wrapped the sausage in cloth, putting it back in its satchel. “When you get hungry, Princess, you let me know. I shall consider your request for food.”

  “You cannot mean to starve me!” How many days could she go without food? She would die!

  He snorted. “Nay, of course not. But ‘tis your own stubbornness that kept you from the food, not I.”

  That was true enough, but had he been less unpleasant, she would have never refused the food in the first place. It was all his fault, and he knew it, the scoundrel. Of course, he knew it.

  As the evening wore into true night, the men, one by one, rolled up in their cloaks and fell to their dreams. After a bit, only Smith and Brandywyn were awake. She eyed him warily. This would be the time she dreaded. He was sure to rape her now. The horror of it made her insides feel like jelly. She had never had a man and this was not the way to discover what that kind of intimacy felt like.

  Smith yawned broadly, then rose and got the ropes again. Oh, gods, he was going to tie her up first. She would not be able to fight him!

  Brandywyn shook with terror, but stood quickly and smacked Smith in the face. He did not even rock on his feet, turning his head only slightly with her weak blow. A hopeless feeling of dread slowed the beat of Brandywyn’s heart.

  “I shall not return that blow, Princess, though I am sorely tempted. Hold out your hands for binding.”

  “No!” She pulled her hands behind her back, lamely hiding them from view.

  “Do’t now, or I shall take you over my knee again. Did my hand not make you cooperative, my belt surely will.”

  High color made Brandywyn’s face heat. How dare he threaten to beat her again! And with a belt! She made a swing at him again, but he caught her hand easily. A kick to his shin got nothing but a growl out of him. He made to grab both of her hands together, but she beat at his chest, kicked and struggled. Several of the men sat up to watch, and she saw wagers exchanged. Scratching, clawing, she tried to avoid the ropes and Smith’s greater strength and size. When he got close enough, she set her teeth to his arm—hard. He shouted an epithet and pulled his arm free. Tiny droplets of blood began to ooze from the arcade of tooth marks Brandywyn had left behind. This time, any gentleness he may have been showing her was discarded. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and turned her to face away from him. Brandywyn could hear the jingle of his belt buckle as he pulled it free.

  Oh, no! He was going to make good on his promise to spank her with his belt! Brandywyn struggled harder, trying to break free of his iron grip on the back of her neck. No scratching and hitting his hand would make him relent, though she tried her hardest. She tried to stomp back on his toes, but her bare feet were no match for his booted ones.

  Inexorably, he pressed her face down on the log. It was scratchy on her cheek, but she could see him standing next to her, his back bent as he held her firmly. He put his loose belt between his legs and hiked Brandywyn’s pitiful skirt up over her back. She tried to struggle it back down, but his hand on her neck pressed harder and she stilled. Her bare bottom, once warm from her earlier spanking, now cooled to the evening air. There was no comfort in that breeze.

  Smith took the belt from its resting place and slowly wrapped it around his hand, leaving a looped tail. Seeing her watching him, he grinned and struck his thigh with the weapon. The loud crack made Brandywyn flinch and grow even more terrified. Once more, she struggled, but her cheek was pressed tight to the weather-smoothed log and her struggles availed her nothing.

  There were no preambles, no gentle tests of her mettle. The first strike made her cringe and squeak. It was so loud in the quiet forest, and the men cheered at her expense.

  Another smack and she tried not to flinch, tried not to make a sound. She bit her lip and as more and more spanks beleaguered her raw bottom, she bit it bloody. Eventually, after the belt had fallen so many times that Brandywyn, in her extremis, could not count, she cried out. She could not help it. She screamed with all her might. The pain was excruciating, her body rebelling and without thinking, she tried to put her hands over her behind. She got a sharp crack with the belt on her knuckles for her troubles.

  “Hands down!”

  “Oh, stop! Please, Smith, stop!”

  Silently, he spanked her until she thought her bottom would melt from the heat, the fire scorching her down her thighs and over the bits of her private parts that were exposed. Brandywyn, cosseted as she had been, had never felt pain like this before. She broke down into tears, screaming and crying her eyes out. She thought she might die, right here, right now, die in the hands of cruel captors, wearing rags and dirt for her shroud.

  “Never, ever, put your teeth to me, brat!” Smith ordered.

  Her sobs drowned out her agreement. She would have agreed to nearly anything to stop the punishment, but in this case, she certainly meant it. Biting him and receiving retribution with his belt had been a very bad idea.

  The spanking stopped, and after one more half-hearted shove of her face against the log, Smith straightened and began to put the belt back in its place at his waist.

  Brandywyn stood, quite painfully, and her skirt dropped down off her back. It was scratchy against her raw bottom, and the princess could feel the heat of her flayed behind through the thin fabric.

  Smith grabbed her hands and wrapped her wrists with the rope—the awful, confining rope—and bent to tie her ankles also. Soon, she was trussed up. He fetched her fine cloak from his saddle and wrapped it around her, though Brandywyn was sure that the heat of her behind would keep her warm, even on such a chilly night. Smith tugged her toward the fire and forced her to sit, then lie down a bit away from it. He got his cloak and lay next to her. There was no touching, just heat between them. It was unpleasant, smelling his sweat, the smoky fire, the horses. Her face was cold but there was naught she could do for it.

  Smith never removed his mask. She didn’t even know the true face of her captor. Brandywyn felt bitter and abused.

  Silent tears dripped over her chafed cheeks and she stifled her sobs in the hood of her cloak. No rape that night, thank the gods, but who knew what was in store?

  Chapter Three

  The next morning started before dawn. Brandywyn had barely slept, so upset and uncomfortable was she. Smith took her to a stream to wash her face and hands, but there was nothing she could do with her long
hair, so long as her hands were tied. Judging by her reflection in the water, she looked like a dirty, wild-haired beggar. And, to top it all off, her bottom was still painful. Smith allowed her to drink water from the stream, but, once more, she had no food.

  Hunger gnawed at her belly as she watched the men eat. Someone had snared a pair of rabbits, so their hard bread was supplemented with meat. The smell was mouth-watering, and soon Brandywyn had to close her eyes and turn away from the fire and the food, or risk going mad.

  Finally, as dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, they took to horses. Smith made her ride with her skirts hitched up, forcing her bruised bottom onto the saddle blanket, where she sat behind him. At least he had untied her hands and feet and she would not have to lie belly-down across the saddle!

  They set a quick pace, so Brandywyn had to hold onto Smith tightly. He was a big man, by anyone’s standards—brawny and muscular. Brandywyn’s arms could barely go round him, and her hands would not meet at his middle. And he smelled bad, like wood smoke and strong sweat, and spilled wine. As they sat so intimately on the horse, Brandywyn tried to surreptitiously feel around his middle for his knife. Everyone had one, if only their eating knife. If she could get his knife, she might be able to stab him, push him off the horse, and gallop away into the forest. Apparently, she was not stealthy enough because he slapped her hand away, making her fingers ache. Without a word, he transferred his knife to his boot. She hated him with all her heart and vowed, once again, to escape his brutal clutches.

  The day wore on, and the men ate as they rode, stopping only to water the horses twice. It seemed like the journey was endless. Brandywyn’s bottom was raw from the rough blanket and her spankings of the day before, and she was thirsty. Smith had offered her only the smallest of sips from his water skin as they traveled.

  Misery brought unwelcome tears to Brandywyn’s eyes, but she fought them back. She tried to be stalwart. She tried to be fearless. But she was very, very afraid.