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?”
“Where do you think this sweet stuff we spread upon our bread comes from?”
“I never thought of it. Milk, I suppose.”
“Indeed. But not really the milk, the cream. Now that the cream has separated from the milk, we shall ladle it off the surface and put it into the churn, which you shall operate while I go check my traps. The villagers pay a pretty penny for the game I catch, and we must be mindful of our coffers.”
Brandywyn sniffed. “You keep saying ‘we,’ but I am not part of ‘we.’ I am I. We are not a pair, Tom Huntsman. You are a rogue and I am a princess. Consorting with you is beneath my dignity.”
Tom sighed, but stood from the table. “You clean this up and I shall put the cream into the churn. Come outdoors when you are done.”
“I do not clean like a menial. You clean.”
“Brandywyn…” Once again, his voice was ominous. “Do as I say!”
Her bottom twitched at the thought of yet another spanking, so Brandywyn decided that discretion was the better part of valor in this case. “Very well, but only this one time.”
Brandywyn could not hear what he mumbled as he took the bucket of milk and went outside.
She did her best to tidy up, though she thought more crumbs fell on the floor than in her hand. Nonetheless, the table was cleared. She was not looking forward to the next chore. So far, the chores had been too much like work, although, she had to admit that milking Fancy had been satisfying in a way.
Outside, she found Tom sitting on the three-legged stool with a tall narrow barrel with a handle between his feet. “Come closer,” he told her. “This is a churn. Are we touching your memory at all with this?”
She shook her head. Tom was so convinced that Brandywyn was a peasant girl, that she had moments when she wondered if she wasn’t addlepated herself. She shook off those offensive thoughts and tried to cope with the reality before her.
“Very well.” He stood and patted the stool. “Sit here. The churn sits before you and the cream is inside. Lift the lid and you will see it.”
Brandywyn did as bid. Inside was thick, silky cream. She imagined it poured over strawberries and her mouth watered. Quickly, she replaced the lid.
“Now you operate the device by pulling and pushing on the handle.” He showed her how. “That moves the churn inside and beats the cream into butter and buttermilk. Once a ball of butter forms, you pour off the buttermilk, strain the butter through a cloth to make it harden further, and that is all you do. Do you understand?”
Was this another magical transformation like dough into bread? How could liquid cream become solid butter? “If you say so,” she said, not really understanding at all.
“You will have to trust me. You churn and I shall hunt. We can then go to the village where we will sell a bit of butter and some game—fates willing.”
“My hands will be ruined,” she complained, making no move to work the churn.
“Hm. You do lack calluses—no surprise as spoilt as you were allowed to become. One moment.” Tom went inside the cottage and returned a few moments later with deerskin gloves. “Here. They will be rather big, but should protect your hands quite well.”
Brandywyn eyed the worn gloves as though they were filled with dung. “I cannot wear these.”
“Would you rather have blisters?”
“No, but—”
“Put them on and argue no more.”
Sighing, Brandywyn put on the ill-fitting gloves. They were actually quite soft and pliable. She tried not to show Tom that she liked them.
“Now churn, my girl. Remember, your goal is good butter. I shall return, but be warned. Those kidnappers are as yet uncaught. You could be their victim again. If you hear anything, or anyone comes near the cot
tage, you run inside and bar the door. I shall call to you if ‘tis me. Take no chances in this, Brandywyn.” With that, he made a mocking bow and, taking his bow and arrow, made his way into the woods.
Brandywyn had nothing better to do with herself, so she churned. Verily, she was curious to see this transformation from cream to butter, only half-believing it could be true.
Churning, however, was quite a labor. She moved the handle for a while, but then had to pause for a rest. Moved it again, and rested. The gloves were saving her from blisters, but what was to save her arms from tired achiness?
After a while, she checked inside the churn. Sure enough, a soft kind of paste had formed. Reaching in, she drew up a drop and tasted it. Butter. Pleased with the miracle she had had a hand in, she churned some more, hoping to solidify the paste into what she recognized as butter. The air was not too warm to melt it much, and in another few minutes, Brandywyn checked again. Now it was nearly solid. Good enough.
Brandywyn scooped the butter out of the churn and into an earthenware bowl and poured the buttermilk into a pitcher from the ladder of shelves. She thought the sweet butter might solidify more if she put it near ice as they had in the palace, but she had no ice. The coldest thing near her was the stream. It was not far away. She covered the bowl with a cheesecloth and took it to the edge of the stream. It took her a few minutes to build a little lagoon with rocks, to keep the butter from floating away. Brandywyn put the bowl of butter into the cold water and watched the water bubble into the lagoon and out again. Not ice, but cool enough, she hoped. Pleased with her handiwork, she tried to remind herself that princesses did not churn butter, but it was too magical and she could not help but take pride in the accomplishment.
She waited for Tom to return from his hunt, but the morning was passing and still he did not return. Brandywyn was bored. She decided to go look for him. Remembering the unpleasant feeling of being captured by brigands, she looked around for a weapon to protect herself. All she could find was a heavy spear. It was much too long for her to wield, but it did have a sturdy point. Brandywyn figured she could at least threaten with it, perhaps successfully.
It was a cool day, the sun peeking out from clouds now and then, but Brandywyn thought she would be comfortable enough, so she headed into the forest, following a narrow track that started behind the cottage and moved eastward.
She was not far from the cottage, perhaps a quarter of a league, when she heard rustling in the bushes a few yards away. “Tom? Tom Huntsman?”
No voice answered her, just more rustling. Brandywyn backed up several paces and lowered her too-long spear toward the place where the noise originated. “Who goes there? Come out!”
The leaves rustled mightily in the underbrush and there was a sound. It was a snort. Some sort of animal was wounded or perhaps it was an injured person. She stepped cautiously toward the sound. “Who goes there? Do you need help?”
With a loud snort, a large beast came running from the underbrush. It was Brandywyn’s size and then more. She recognized it from game her father had brought home from hunts—a boar. This one had long tusks and a mobile snout. Its little piggy eyes glittered at her malevolently as it came to a dirt-tossing halt a few yards from her. It grunted and tossed its giant head. Terror gripped her, but she lowered her spear. The weapon was so heavy, by now her arm was tired, so the point drooped toward the ground and not toward the boar. Brandywyn tried not to move anymore. If she remained very still, perhaps it would go away.
But it did not go away. It took aim at her and she made the mistake of whimpering. The beast focused on her fully now and charged.
Suddenly, an arrow streaked by her arm and pierced the boar through the eye. It snorted, but immediately fell to its knees. Dead.
Shaking, Brandywyn turned to look behind her and found Tom Huntsman lowering his bow. “That ought to fetch a pretty price, though it should be disobedient female I should be bringing to market.”
So relieved she thought she might faint, Brandywyn ran to him and threw her arms around his broad chest. She went on tiptoe and kissed his dear face all over, finally pausing at his lips to give him a loud smooch.
Tom gave her a light kiss back, then held her away from him. “Are you well? Did it hurt you?”
“I am… I have never been so frightened. Thank you for saving me.”
“Were you out to hunt boar, foolish woman? You have my boar spear. Did you know how to use it?”
“I had what? No, I know nothing of weapons. I was hoping to scare off kidnappers if I should encounter them.”
“What could you have been thinking to venture into the forest alone? Why did you come?”
Fear was dissipating, leaving a weak tiredness in its wake. “I was searching for you.”
He held her steady for several long moments. Finally, her knees held their strength and she stood unaided. “You were very foolish. You could have been killed.”
“I know it was dangerous, but I was armed.”
“Could you have used that spear if you needed to? It is not made for a person your size.”
“I… uh… it is a little big. But that was all there was.”
“An evil-doer would only have taken it away from you, perhaps speared you with it.” He pulled out his knife and looked around.
Brandywyn panicked a bit. Was he intending to kill her too? Had she become too much trouble? So much trouble that he thought himself better rid of her? She took a shaky step back away from him.
Tom did not seem to notice. He went to a tree and sheared off a sturdy limb, then did the same to another nearby. After a few minutes, he had a kind of travois. Impromptu, and not terribly sturdy, but good enough to get the boar back to the cottage where it could be properly butchered and the meat readied for sale.
“Come along, Brandywyn. I have words for you when we get back.” He handed her a brace of hares and three pheasants all tied up by their feet, and took the travois behind him like a beast of burden. They trudged through the forest silently, only the sound of the travois dragging upon the ground to mark their passing.
Chapter Six
He spanked her. Of course he spanked her. What could Brandywyn expect for her foolish behavior? And it hadn’t been so bad, despite the lecture and the hardness of the swats.
First, he’d butchered the boar, of course. It was a dirty, smelly job, and took much of the afternoon. The meat would spoil, however, if not dealt with quickly. Leaving Brandywyn to stew in her own feelings of trepidation, he used his horse and a small wagon to take the meat into the village.
More of the afternoon passed, and Brandywyn didn’t know quite what to do with herself. She baked a fresh loaf of bread, feeling rather proud of the lumpy, slightly overcooked, but crisp and fragrant food she had prepared with her own hands. But would it be enough to mollify Tom and get her out of her punishment? Unlikely.
When he returned, he was tired and hungry. He sought something in the pot that dangled from an iron hook near the hearth, but it was empty. Brandywyn did not know how to cook in a pot, and Tom, if he would only believe her a princess, should have known it, too. Instead he eyed her with a hard stare.
“I baked some bread,” she offered, handing him the loaf.
“Verily, you did.” He ripped off a part and slathered it with the butter she fetched from the stream. After several hunks, he seemed satisfied, and to Brandywyn’s relief, somewhat less dark-faced.
“You did a very foolish thing, Brandywyn. You put yourself in great danger. I would have been back soon enough. Why did you not trust me to return?”
“I did trust you, Tom,” she explained. “But I was bored after I made the butter. I did not know the way to the village, nor back to my home. I was… lonely.” She hoped she sounded pitiful and earned herself some mercy.
“I shall spank you for your ill behavior,” he pronounced. “I cannot trust you to behave rightly when I go away, and yet I must hunt to provide meat for our table and goods from the village. You must beh
ave!”
“I shall. I promise, Tom. I shall never wander again. Please do not spank me.”
He stood and went to his chest in the corner, pulling out a leather glove. He slapped it once against his other palm, and Brandywyn realized that the glove palm was made of very sturdy leather, not unlike a hard strap or belt; and much thicker than a normal glove. She jumped out of her chair and hurried toward the door. Tom caught her easily and hauled her back inside.
“Take your punishment, Brandywyn. Let us get beyond this thing and move forward.”
“No! Please do not make me!” She stamped her foot. “I want to go home! I do not want to be here where you make me do servants’ chores and treat me like the meanest lackey.”
“Are you really so unhappy learning to fend for yourself?”
He was sneaking up on her, plying her with questions, trying to calm her down so that she would cooperate. Brandywyn could see that clearly. Normally, it would have made her furious, but this time it worked and she calmed. Her blood was still racing as she contemplated being spanked with that awful glove, but her will to run away was dissipating steadily. She did deserve to be punished, she acknowledged to herself. Her behavior had been lack-witted. Perhaps… perhaps, Tom would help her get control of her impulses. It would be painful, but if she had to stay here in the cottage, as it was apparent she would be doing until she could convince him she was Princess Brandywyn of Ring, she ought to try to get along. There were only the two of them, after all. She needed him to see to her safety and sustenance.
The fight went out of her. He was not a mean man, would not harm her, even did he make her sore for a time. Tom was… special.
“Very well. I shall cooperate.”
Tom took a seat in the chair and patted his thighs. “Over my lap, woman. Take what you deserve.”
Dragging her ghillied feet, Brandywyn crossed the tiny cottage and stood at Tom’s side, eyeing his lap with great hesitation. Was this the right thing to do? It was going to hurt. But she had been wrong, and she did need to be reminded to deal with things intelligently and not run off pell-mell when the mood took her.
The Princess and the Huntsman Page 7