Free The Princess and the Huntsman by Patricia Green

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