The White Hart
A chance encounter with a stag has a profound impact upon a young bride's life.
Long ago, a young bride named Isabelle sat beneath an oak tree and played a melancholy tune upon her lute. Marriage was not the great romance the minstrels had promised in their songs. Instead of poetry and passionate embraces, Isabelle was given a pat on the head or a kiss on the cheek. Even her elder brothers had been more affectionate in word and deed than her own husband! She missed them terribly, but most of all, she missed her loving father. And oh, how angry he would be to hear of her distress! Not that she could write to him, of course. Her father’s kingdom required a peaceful alliance with England. So Isabelle played and cried and mourned the life she had left behind in France – sending her message upon the wind since there was no one else whom she could tell.
At the point of her darkest despair, a flash of white caught her eye. She glanced up and saw a young deer staring out from the trees. Her breath hitched. A white hart was surely a blessing of good luck! Her fingers continued to play, but her eyes remained fixed upon the lovely creature. After a time, he left his shelter and walked slowly towards her. She could see now that he was an adolescent stag with stubby antlers covered in gray fuzz. He continued forward, curious at the sound issuing from the instrument. When he was but a few yards away, Isabelle held out her hand to him.
“Come here, my beauty. I mean you no harm,” she whispered.
The white hart bent his head to sniff her fingers. Isabelle waited until he had her scent before stroking the soft velvet above his nose. “Hello, mon coeur,” she whispered, awestruck at how tame he was. The stag nudged her lute a moment later. “Oh, you want me to keep on playing, do you?” she asked, smiling as he blinked his liquid dark eyes in response. “All right, my beauty.”
Isabelle’s melody joined the chorus of birdsong, creating a soaring concert in the canopy above. A divine transcendence stirred inside her, putting an end to the homesickness she had felt mere moments before. Then a shout shattered the enchantment – frightening the stag – and leaving Isabelle disoriented.
Edward strode across the lawn. “I say, Belle, was that a white hart with you?”
His words brought Isabelle back to her senses. “Yes, but he is under my protection. I forbid anyone to hunt him for sport.”
Edward laughed. “Do you hear that, Piers? My imperious little wife dares issue orders to the future King of England!”
The courtier joined in his mirth, and Isabelle felt her ire rise. Fuming, she rose to her full height. “Edward, I shall be your Queen someday, and as such, I ask that you treat me with the respect I deserve!” Small of stature she might be, but Isabelle knew her own worth.
The smile fell from his handsome face. “Forgive me, Belle. That was ungallant of me. I would be a poor husband indeed if I denied you such a simple request.”
“And the white hart?”
“I will issue a royal decree that he remain unharmed.” Edward placed a hand over his heart. “And I give you my solemn oath that he shall live out his days peacefully in these woods.”
Isabelle inclined her head. “Thank you, husband.”
As she bent to retrieve her lute, Edward touched the sleeve of her gown. “Pray do not leave on our account. We were drawn here by your lovely melody. Will you play another song for us?”
Isabelle had no desire to entertain the man who had usurped her husband’s affections, but she wasn’t foolish enough to deny his request. Now that she had an innocent creature to protect, she couldn’t risk insulting Edward. Isabelle knew very well that he could retract his oath at any time. Never trust the promises of men, my Ysabeau, her father had told her on the eve of her departure. A fellow King knew how easily a word could be broken.
Isabelle took up her instrument again. Closing her eyes, she pictured the white hart standing before her. The song she played was for him alone.
* * *
Years went by, and Isabelle became an old woman. Although most of her memories had faded with time, she had never forgotten the young stag. The magic of that day remained clear in her mind’s eye.
One evening after supper, she told her grandchildren the story of the white hart.
“Did you ever see him again?” her granddaughter asked.
“I did, but only from a distance.”
“What became of him?” questioned her grandson.
“I know not, for I moved to another castle when I became Queen. But I like to think of him roaming those grounds to this day – the mighty King of the Forest.”
Her granddaughter’s brow furrowed. “But surely he has passed on by now?”
“Perhaps in body, but not in spirit.”
“The priests say that animals have no souls,” her grandson added.
“Oh, he has a soul. I could see it when I looked into his eyes.”
The children exchanged a glance, but they chose not to challenge her. They were used to their grandmother’s eccentricities by now. While everyone else was governed by church, king, and country, Isabelle had flouted those rules and lived according to her own principles. She had a wildness that could not be tamed, and it had caused her much suffering in her long life. But despite Isabelle’s many faults, her grandchildren loved her dearly.
* * *
That night, Isabelle dreamt of the white hart. He stood proudly in a forest glade; apple blossoms sprouting from an impressive rack of antlers. She moved towards him – the springy moss a carpet beneath her bare feet. The magnificent creature standing before her held all the world’s wisdom within his bottomless gaze. The stag towered over her now, but he bent his head in a deferential greeting. Isabelle pressed her forehead to his, feeling her heart swell with the purest form of love.
“I have missed you, my handsome one.”
An answering voice echoed inside her mind. And I you, my beloved protector.
When she pulled away, the stag turned his great head towards a serene pool. A beautiful apple tree grew close to the bank – its white blossoms drifting across a mirrored surface. Isabelle knew that she was meant to drink from the pool. Crossing the clearing, she knelt on the grassy bank and cupped her hands around the sparkling water. The taste was as crisp and sweet as apples. Once she had drunk her fill, Isabelle stood and rested her hand upon his back. Together they walked through the forest… the King of her heart, and the Queen of his.
* * *
The following day dawned pink and golden. Isabelle’s maid servant entered her bed chamber at precisely seven o’clock. “My Lady, ’tis a beautiful morning,” she said, pulling back the green velvet draperies. Isabelle’s white hair fanned across her pillow like a halo. The maid’s eyes filled with tears. She knew the great Lady breathed no more, yet she had died with such a smile of contentment upon her ageless face.
Isabelle’s soul had returned home.
While the story is fiction, Isabelle was a real person. She is known historically as Isabella of France, Queen of King Edward II of England. She lived and reigned in the 14th century, and is famously known for deposing her husband with an army of French mercenaries. She is also my 18th great grandmother, so I have a bit of a soft spot for her despite her terrible reputation 😉 Hopefully, I get a chance to write a full-length novel about her someday, but until then, this short story will have to do.
Fascinating tale. 18th great-grandmother, you say? How did you find that out, may I ask?
Well written, Daisy! I enjoyed this story and how you crafted it!