The Princess and the Huntsman (5 page)

The moon appeared in the sky, though it was not dusk yet. It was the same moon that she saw from her windows at the palace. The thought made her homesick all the more. She was so tired, so sore, so bereft. Tears again formed, and though she tried to keep them inside, she had no strength to fight them back. They fell silently, wetting her cheeks and dripping down on her food-stained bodice.

Suddenly, a horsed man could be seen coming down the cart road. He trotted along, whistling some jaunty tune. Brandywyn saw her chance.

“Help! Help! I am Princess Brandywyn of Ring! I am stolen! Help!”

Smith slapped her thigh and she cried out. The fellow stopped in the road and looked the group over suspiciously.

Brandywyn cared not if her leg was black and blue, so long as she was freed. “Oh, help! I am a prisoner! Ow!” This time, Smith pinched her tender flesh.

“Halt!” the man said strongly. “What goes?”

“‘Tis nothing of your business, sirrah. Do you keep your queries to yourself,” Smith responded, his voice hard and menacing.

The man slid from his horse, and drawing a bow, he nocked an arrow. “Stop, or I shall loose this arrow ‘pon you!”

Smith’s men drew swords. Some were quite rusty, but most looked shiny and well-kept, too sharp by half.

The bowman was tall, broad-shouldered, fair of face, though browned by the sun. His eyes were piercing blue, forming a handsome contrast to his dark brown hair. He shot an arrow over Smith’s head and Smith quickly drew his own weapon and jumped off his horse. As Smith strode toward him with sword at the ready, the bowman loosed a second arrow, this time slicing through Smith’s travel-stained doublet at the shoulder.

“My aim is true, sirrah. The next will pierce your heart.”

Smith’s men shouted to each other, disagreeing over whether to attempt to overwhelm the armed man or not. Most decided to run away, and they spurred their horses into the trees, scattering like mice in the light.

Smith had but one man left. He nodded for the fellow to approach the bowman from behind. But the bowman’s horse was in the way. No sword could reach him, save Smith’s.

Smith lunged, getting under the arrow’s reach. Quickly the bowman stepped aside, and Smith’s blade missed by inches. The bowman drew an old, ugly sword from a scabbard on his horse, and faced Smith squarely, still keeping his horse between Smith’s lone helper and himself.

Brandywyn carefully slid off the destrier, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. No one appeared to notice her. She stealthily moved around the horse, and prepared to run.

Once again, Smith lunged. It was a clumsy move, and the bowman actually laughed, striking Smith with the flat of his blade. More insult than harm.

Smith growled and swung at his opponent’s head. It was a slow exchange, his burly muscles useless when faced by the more slender bowman in these close quarters. Indeed, Smith would have been a frightening opponent if armored, but as he was, he was nearly helpless despite his sword.

The bowman easily parried the strike, and slashed Smith’s doublet across the front, leaving a wide opening. It was obvious that Smith could not win this battle. He stepped back and dropped his sword.

“Now, now, fellow. ‘Tis naught but a lover’s quarrel that makes the maid uneasy. There is nothing amiss.”

Narrowing his eyes, the bowman kicked Smith’s sword away. Paralyzed with fear, Smith’s helper sat, his mouth agape, no help at all.

“I shall hear it from the maid herself,” the stranger said.

Brandywyn took that moment to take to her heels, running down the road as though the devil himself was chasing her. Her feet smarted on the sharp rocks, but she kept running. The men shouted for her, but she continued. Unused to running, she became winded, and her strides slowed. There was a skirmish behind her; she could hear the men scrambling.

As she thought maybe she should make for the trees and the shelter of the forest, she was tackled from behind. Down she fell, in a heap, her breath—what was left of it—knocked from lungs with a whoosh. Her hands scraped in the dirt, but that didn’t stop her from struggling against the arms that held her legs fast.

She screamed and fought as hard as she could, but she was no match for the tall bowman with the broad shoulders. Soon he had her pinned on her back, straddling her between his knees, and holding her hands above her head.

His handsome face looked so serious, so concerned. Brandywyn knew, however, that she was caught by another rogue. One who was smarter than Smith had been. Her heart sunk and although she made one more attempt to get free, it was weak.

“Let me go! Rogue! Varlet! Let me free! I demand it!”

He laughed, the scurrilous knave. “I am no harm to you, woman. I wanted you to stop so that I could help you. The kidnappers have run off.”

“Oh.” She stopped struggling.

“Aye.” Slowly, he released her, helping her to stand and get out of the dirt.

“Gramercy, sir. You have done me a service. Tell me your name and I shall be certain to tell my father the king. He will reward you handsomely for freeing me.”

“I am Tom Huntsman,” he told her with a courtly bow. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I am Princess Brandywyn of Ring.”

“Aha,” he said, pity moving over his features. “Well,
Princess
, I think me a draught of water and a bit of pheasant would be in order before we take you back to your palace.”

Brandywyn’s mouth watered at the thought. “Aye. Aye, can you do’t, I would be most grateful. But then I must go home.”

“Of course.” He offered her his arm. “Princess, your sup awaits.”

Smiling, Brandywyn took his arm and let him help her mount behind him on his horse where she would have to share the space with a brace of pheasants.

Unlike her partner on her last ride, Tom Huntsman smelled good. Her arms went round him well, and though they could not meet in the middle, it was closer. She allowed herself to lean her chafed cheek against his broad back. His muscles were hard, but the fabric of his simple doublet, a bit worn here and there, was soft and clean. He was a stranger, of a certainty, but he had saved her from Smith, and that was worth something. Of course, he might have tricked her, but she had a feeling that he was not the sort to do so. At least, that was her hope.

He trotted the horse into the trees where they found a deer track. It led to a clearing near a narrow stream, and in the clearing stood a small cottage. The wattle and daub walls looked sturdy, its thatch fresh on the roof. Beside it was a shelter for the horse, but when they dismounted, Brandywyn saw that there was also a cow inside. It seemed like a tidy home from the outside.

“This is your home?”

“Aye. Humble as it is for a princess’ visit.” He smiled again, and Brandywyn had the impression that he was humoring her. He took the pheasants off the horse and led the way to the door of the cottage. Once there, he bowed again and opened the portal for Brandywyn to enter.

Inside, it was a little dim, but that was soon remedied when Tom lit an oil lamp that sat on a roughhewn but smooth-topped table in the center of the single room. On either side of the table was an aisle way, and a ladder of shelves. The shelves held all manner of small things, including tools and crude dishes.

At the back of the cottage was a large bed—straw-filled, she expected—and it looked extremely inviting with blankets and quilts sleep-wrinkled upon it. She was so tired. But she had a long way to travel before reaching home, and after she had a meal, she would have to be off.

“Please sit, Your Highness. Rest your feet. I shall soon have your meal ready.”

She looked longingly at the bed again, hunger warring with the need to rest. Tom did not miss her look.

“Would you nap before you sup? You are welcome to use my bed for a while as the pheasant cooks.”

It was too much to resist. She walked toward the bed, but stopped as he spoke. “Princess,” he began, his voice apologetic. “You are a bit… well… dirty. Would you do me the favor—no, the honor—of wearing one of my shirts as you sleep? I would not like to have my bed sullied if it could be avoided.”

Although it rankled, Brandywyn could not help but agree about her sorry state. “Where may I wash?”

“At the stream outside. You will be safe there.” He put the pheasants on the table and went to a peg near the bed, drawing a patched but clean shirt down. “Here. You are most welcome to change into it. I am afraid I have no proper garments for a princess to wear.”

Of course he would not. “Aye.” She reached out and took the soft garment from him, enjoying his answering smile. “Gramercy.” A long moment passed as their fingers touched around the neck of the shirt. Curiously, Brandywyn trembled. It was a natural reaction, she told herself, to the danger she had so recently escaped and the relief she felt at being in a safer place where she was being treated appropriately. Her eyes met Tom’s very blue gaze, and once again he smiled. Brandywyn nearly gasped. He was so handsome, so virile, so kind. She drew her hand away and took a hesitant step back, shaking her head to clear it. ‘Twould not do to fall into his gaze. She was still alone in the world and had to focus on getting back home.

Hurrying away from him, she headed out to the stream where she removed the rags and washed herself as best she could. Her bottom still hurt, but ‘twas getting better. And without the twigs and dirt, her hair was clean enough to finger-comb and plait. As she washed her face, the scratches there smarted a bit, but they were not so bad as to leave any lasting marks. All in all, she was lucky. Now, if she could get Tom Huntsman to show her the way, she would be back home in no time.

Brandywyn took a few moments to try to wash the rags she had been wearing. It was hopeless to try to remove the food stains, but much of the dirt came away. She laid the sorry garments out on a rock to dry and donned Tom’s shirt. It was much too big for her, the sleeves falling far over her hands and the hem swinging at her calves, but ‘twas clean and fresh-smelling and so much more gentle on her skin than what the kidnappers had forced her to wear. She rolled up the sleeves and made her way back into the cottage.

Appetizing aromas wafted from the hearth as the pheasants cooked in a clay pot with something that smelled like onions. Brandywyn felt a bit faint and leaned on the table weakly. Tom moved quickly away from the hearth, catching her before she fell.

“There now, Princess. Do we take you to the bed where you might rest awhile. Your supper will be done in a short time. Pray nap while you wait.”

Leaning heavily on Tom, Brandywyn nodded her head and allowed herself to be tucked into the rough bed and covered with blankets. The straw-filled mattress could not have felt better if it was a featherbed. Brandywyn drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

“Princess… Princess…”

“Not now, Tarntra,” Brandywyn muttered, still trying to sleep. “Wake me again in an hour.”

There was a merry laugh, and it didn’t belong to Tarntra. Brandywyn awoke fully, finding Tom standing nearby, a smile on his face. “Ah, the beauty awakens.” He gestured toward the table. “Your supper awaits.”

“Oh!” She sat up, her nose twitching at the delicious smell of the hearty food. She felt much refreshed, but famished.

Tom offered his arm and led her to the table. When he sat down across from her, she frowned. One did not sit at table with a princess unless one was of high station. “Have you no manners?”

“I cry your pardon?” he asked, that smile lingering.

“I am a princess,” she reminded him. “‘Tis not appropriate for a commoner to sup with me.”

“Oh!” He stood. “Of course.” He picked up his bowl, but paused. “I do not suppose you might make an exception this one time. I have had a vigorous day and would eat at my own table.”

Brandywyn considered this for a moment, but decided ‘twas still not appropriate. “No, Tom. I think it is best do you sit on the floor.”

His bright expression dimmed, but he turned away and sat near the hearth. “You are a hard one, Princess,” he said. “But your wish is my command.”

“And well it should be,” she said, though she felt rather foolish over the entire affair. He had done her a great service and the repayment was poor at best. She stuck the knife in the succulent pheasant and cut off a bite, savoring every sense as she put it in her mouth. Tom watched her, not eating, as he sat at the hearth. Brandywyn had second thoughts. “Tom, I have reconsidered. You may attend me at table. You may cut my meat.”

Again, his mouth tilted with a grin. “Aye. I shall be most honored. Shall I sit with you as I do so?”

It was inappropriate in the extreme, but who was here to know it? She eyed him for a moment. “Aye. You may.”

He picked up his bowl and took a seat across the table from her. Whereas she sat in a proper, sturdy chair, he sat on a three-legged stool. It looked a bit rickety, but serviceable. Brandywyn nodded at her bowl, and Tom pulled it toward himself, cutting her fowl into bite-sized morsels efficiently.

As she ate, Brandywyn queried her savior. “How come you to be here, Tom Huntsman?”

He shrugged, but answered. “I was a lad in the village—there is one about a mile from here—and as I grew, I found I had a talent for hunting. My desire to live in the village, however, was tainted by my love for a lovely maiden who chose another for her groom.” He appeared focused on his food for a moment. “I built this cottage and now I supply game to the villagers in exchange for vegetables and other necessaries.”

So, he was an honest huntsman, unpretentious, humble. Brandywyn finished her meal and sat for a bit longer. “How far are we from the palace grounds?”

“Many miles, sweeting… I mean, Princess.”

She frowned at his slip of the tongue. “Then I had best be off.” Deciding to leave his familiarity be, she moved toward the door to go back to the stream and retrieve the only clothes she had.

“It is full dark, Highness. ‘Twould be better should you stay here for the night and start off in the daylight.”

It was true, no light but moonlight spilled in through the windows. A cool breeze through them made her nipples tight. It would be very bad form for her to spend the night in this stranger’s home, unchaperoned. But what choice was there? She had not even a cloak—Smith had made off with it. “Well…”