The White Hart
In the depths of a winter far back in time, morning rose frozen from the blackness of night. Like a pale star carved of ice, the sun shivered as it lifted into the fragile air, its naked majesty unhindered by even a wisp of cloud. All around, the wild hills rose and fell, covered with snow and ice and bristling with black, barren trees. Darker forest loomed deeper into the vale, coniferous trees impervious to the blight of Scotland's cold stood tall against the weight of icicles and frost. Within the ancient protection of the pines lived all the creatures of the forest during those months. Man rarely ventured there, for it was rumored to be haunted and men are craven creatures when not traveling in groups.
That morning, as sunlight crisply sparkled across the frozen edges of things, the creatures of the wood remained still and listened. A party was moving through the bottom of vale some miles away, and there could be noted the noises of dogs, men, and horses. This season had been lean for beasts and men alike, and the creatures that trembled in their dens knew in their hearts that they hadn't the energy to run far. Yet one rose to his hooves, a mighty stag with a lean body insulated against the chill by a pelt of white fur. The ten points of his antlers glittered like bare ivory veined in silver, gleaming in the slips of light that filtered in through the branches, and his dark eyes watched unblinking, ears facing forward to listen to the hunting party approach. Does, fawns, and younger bucks sought shelter there, and if driven from the wood they would have no cover at all.
His hooves and slim legs waded through the cover of snow as if it were hardly there, his passage as silent as flowing fog. The stag, in those times named a hart, descended into the vale to meet the coming of men, the cervine nobility of his blood heating his body and giving him the courage to keep going. At the bottom of the slope he waited, as still as one of the naked, gray ash trees that clawed up towards the sky. Ravens perched and cawed as the hunting retinue came closer, the scavengers waiting for the inevitable. And when, finally, the hounds caught the scent of the hart and began to give chase, he dashed off through the slim trunks, his snowy fur flashing in the light.
The chase was long and winding, and led far away from the deep, ancient wood. The stories of that hunt say that the hart was tireless because he was magical. Others say that only when he was far enough away from his herd did he turn and menace the hounds with his antlers, feigning exhaustion, killing many of the dogs as they unwisely sought to pull him down. The red of his blood soaked into the earth, and each drop of it brought a crimson flower to bloom up through the snow. When enough spears had lodged themselves in his body the hart cried out in despair and sank to the ground, and the earth trembled at his death.
But that is surely just a story.
Many years later, a young woman knelt as she raked out the ashes from a large fireplace in the king's castle. Winters in the region had a way of sliding into any shelter, the touch of ice deadly to those who didn't keep their hearths warm. She had to work quickly, pulling piles of ash into a burlap sack with a steady squealing scratch of the small metal trowel. Already the chill gripped at her fingers and cheeks and ears as it slid in from the chimney flue. A rosy bloom glowed on her face and the tip of her nose as she set new wood down, her fingers clumsy with cold.
For a long moment she knelt in the dust and soot in her plain gray servant's dress, her hands extended towards the growing flames she'd kindled to bathe in their warmth. The chill from the flue crawled back up and away, its deadly touch retreating from the room. Were it not for the smudges of soot and dust the girl's beauty could have rivaled any of the royal ladies living within those walls. Her features were fine and her eyes were large and dark, standing out against her milky skin and her snow-white hair. Slender limbs and a slender frame made her seem fragile, although in truth she was quick and tough. The girl had never broken a bone, no matter how hard she was struck or pushed or beaten as punishment, and she was punished often. The only reason she was kept around was for her beauty, the wildness of her spirit only forgiven when it was put to use in a bed chamber.
Gathering up her tools, the girl got to her bare feet and made her way down towards the kitchens and the servants' quarters to clean herself. That had been the last fireplace to need cleaning, and as she walked a wake of shimmering gray dust trailed behind her, shaken free from her hair and clothing with every step down the narrow and winding stairwells. Unlike her hands, her feet were hardly bothered by the chill of winter, and after having been denied shoes while growing up she had learned to live without them. Indeed, she seemed so resolutely impervious to discipline that many thought her to be far too stupid to understand what proper behavior for a servant meant.
Indeed, the girl was not simple, but she allowed others to think that of her. It wasn't a difficult lie to weave, given how she hardly spoke or truly engaged with anyone else. The other serving staff disliked her but tolerated her and allowed her a small space in the back of a pantry to sleep in. In that room she kept all of her earthly possessions, though the most precious among them were hidden beneath a loose stone in the floor behind a barrel. The girl left just enough by her bed roll to convince those who thieved from her that there was nothing else to look for, and for the sake of keeping her true keepsakes secured she happily suffered the loss of a few baubles and sweets.
This morning, of course, she passed by her little space in the pantry as she stepped outside to bathe herself. Even with snow heavy upon the ground, the girl still cracked the ice over the water trough for the horses and pulled out a bucket's worth to use for her shower. Ash sluiced from her white hair and from her naked body, the cold not biting as fiercely within the confines of the barn. Here the animals were just beginning to mill about, digesting their morning feed of beer mash, hay, and wheat chaff. With half a bucket of water left, she washed the ash from her dress and hung it up by the horse's stalls, knowing that their body heat would be enough to dry it.
