The Princess and the Huntsman by Patricia Green Page A

but soon she straightened them and, chin held high, she got out of bed, removed the chamber pot and, hiking the shirt up in the back—but not in the front where he could catch a glimpse of her private parts—did what she needed to do.
    Well enough. She had relented. As she stood, Tom gestured toward the door. “Empty it into the privy. ‘Tis around in the back and down the short path toward the forest.”
    “Why did you not tell me you had a privy?!”
    “Did you ask?”
    “Oh! Oh! I shall have you drawn and quartered! Hung by your ears! I shall—”
    “Aye, aye, aye. No doubt your depravations here will have me dead soon enough. Go empty the chamber pot.”
    “I shall not. ‘Tis not proper for a princess to handle such matters.”
    Tom found his patience, though it was sorely tested. “You are not a princess here. Do as I said.”
    She appeared to think it over, though her jaw remained tight with anger. Huffing her disdain for such a menial task, she gingerly picked up the chamber pot and went outside with it. Tom knew she would not run away. He had gathered her clothes from the rock that morn. She had naught but his shirt to wear. He ought to keep her naked, he thought. ‘Twould do her right.
    Her reappearance in the room banished such thoughts. They broke their fast in silence. Tom gave her the clothes she had arrived in, much cleaner for the washing, and settled back down to work on his leather project.
    Brandywyn dressed silently, putting the garments on over his shirt. Tom had to hide his smile. They had slept in the same bed, yet she hid herself behind maidenly virtue.
    “I want to go home,” she pronounced, standing near the table where he worked.
    “Where is home, exactly?”
    “Why, the royal palace, of course!”
    “Um-hm. I see we have much to work upon.”
    She stomped her bare foot. “I demand—”
    “There you go again. Are you daft that you cannot see past demanding everything you wish? Can you not say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?”
    Frowning, obviously quite angry, she ground out, “Please take me home.”
    Tom looked her up and down. “Think you they will accept you as the princess when you have naught but a man’s shirt and rags to wear?”
    She deflated visibly. “They know me there.”
    “They know a woman in silks and satins, with combed hair and clean nails. She is not you. They will treat you as an imposter, Brandywyn.”
    Biting her lip, she fisted and unfisted her hands, obviously frustrated and considering her options. “Then take me to the village. They will surely help me by giving me proper clothes.”
    “Uh-hm,” he said again. “Of course they will.” He handed her his leatherwork. “Shoes. You cannot go about with bare feet. You will harm yourself.”
    Brandywyn looked at the ghillies, back at him, and down at the shoes again. “Thank you.”
    “That is better. Now might I see a smile on that pretty face?”
    She gave him a sweet smile.
    “Well enou’. Put them on and I shall take you to the village.”
    She sat in the chair and held out her foot. “Dress me.”
    Tom sighed. She was persistent, certes. “Dress yourself.”
    “I do not know how to fasten these slippers. You do it.”
    “Can you tie a knot?”
    “Of course I can!”
    “Figure it out.”
    “Cannot you be my lackey this one time?”
    “I am never your lackey, Brandywyn. Best you remember that.”
    “I hate you!”
    Although that statement hurt, Tom chose to ignore it, gesturing to her feet instead.
    Frowning, she bent to the task. It took her a few moments to discover how to attach the humble slippers to her feet, but she managed, sighing with pleasure when she had accomplished the chore.
    Tom offered his arm and led her out of the cottage and down a circuitous path toward the village. Brandywyn appeared to take no notice of her surroundings, walking with her head held high as though it was her due to be accompanied silently. To himself, Tom thought about her high-handed ways and