Hello everyone! It’s Emma here, your trusty draught horse from Hayfield, Scotland. It's always a joy to share another story from my equine experiences, and this time we're stepping back in time, to the year 857 AD.
Now, I know what you’re thinking – a thousand years ago? That seems like forever! And it's true, those days were quite different from the life of a horse in our modern age. But even back then, we were a crucial part of human lives, pulling ploughs, transporting goods, and yes, sometimes even carrying valiant knights into battle.
For me, 857 AD began as a simple, straightforward year. The weather was mostly kind to us in Hayfield, though winter was always harsh. My days were spent pulling the heavy wooden plough, alongside my trusty team mates, Bob and Ben. We turned the rich earth, preparing it for the next planting season. The farmers in Hayfield relied on us, you see. We were their lifeline, their sturdy and reliable partners in making sure there was enough food to keep their families and communities going.
Evenings were usually spent in the stables, enjoying the warmth of the hay, the friendly nicks and snorts from our fellow horses, and a comforting pat or two from the stable lads. And honestly, that was all I needed. I was content, simply doing my part, in my own quiet, determined way.
Now, I hear whispers from the humans that 857 was a particularly noteworthy year. This was the year when a fearsome Viking chief named Halfdan Ragnarsson decided to have a good look at what the Scottish highlands had to offer. He led a band of Vikings down from the North and eventually settled in a place called the Isle of Man, which was an important trading hub at the time.
My life was simple – food, work, sleep – but the news about Viking raids did reach our ears, albeit in whispers and through murmurs of apprehension from the human community. The humans, naturally, felt threatened, especially by the stories of fierce battles. They'd share these stories while grooming us in the evenings, and sometimes, I would sense the fear, the anxiety beneath their voices.
One particularly cold evening, a tall, stern-faced human stood in the stable and began talking. He explained that the Vikings were advancing, taking more land, and that soon, our little Hayfield might also face their fury. A feeling of anxiety, which I'd never known before, crawled over me.
I didn’t understand the details of why these Vikings wanted our land, or what they planned to do with it. All I knew was that something dangerous was lurking in the shadows. We horses, after all, don't get involved in human squabbles. But the whispers of war, the tension in the stable, it all began to colour my simple, daily routine with an ominous shade.
Then, a week later, something completely unexpected happened. The human world was filled with chaos and preparation. It seemed there was a massive influx of people into Hayfield. Even more unsettling was the arrival of many, many more horses, all weary and dusty. These horses carried strange metal objects on their backs - shiny, cold, things that intimidated even the bravest horse. I realised quickly they were armed with a new, terrifying tool for combat: the sword.
The humans, men and women alike, had an urgency, a sense of desperation, and they needed every available horse, and I suspect, every willing soul, to defend their land. My sturdy build was immediately recognized, my calm nature and ability to carry heavy burdens seen as invaluable. Suddenly, I was no longer just a workhorse; I was a potential soldier.
Then came the day, one of the coldest days of the year. We all assembled – all of us horses – strong and ready. We knew nothing about what awaited us, only the cold apprehension that ran through our ranks.
Our owners, these brave humans, mounted themselves atop us and we stood as one, ready for whatever danger this ‘invasion’ might bring. We marched through the freezing Scottish wind, following a route they called "The Hill of Dùn" – it seemed to hold great significance to our human allies.
We trudged up that hill, the wind biting at our backs, our hoofs crunching on frozen earth. And it was there on the Hill of Dùn, the land overlooking our small valley, that the real fight began. I will never forget it.
My memories from that battle are fragments. I can still picture those terrifying shiny weapons, and the sounds of men and women screaming – both the cries of the fallen, and those rallying for their home, both full of such desperate sorrow and hope. The very ground itself seemed to shake with the impact of their swords, echoing the fearful beating of my own heart.
It was in this terrifying din of clashing steel, shouts of terror and courage, and the thunder of galloping hooves, that the true mettle of the horses, and the spirit of the human community were forged.
You know, many were hurt. Many of our number were killed. I saw the horses, my brothers and sisters in spirit, fall. I saw humans too, many of them young and strong, swept away by the storm of this terrible battle. Yet there was a defiance, a quiet but unshakeable belief in our cause that permeated the chaos of it all.
As the battle raged on, we horses, those who still stood, did what we were trained to do – we kept our riders safe, we moved them forward in the heat of the attack. In that chaos, there was an eerie quiet, a sense of calm and understanding in our silent communication, our bond. The horses knew their roles. They knew that on our strength, their safety depended. And we were prepared to stand our ground until the bitter end.
The day eventually ended, the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky turned crimson with the blood that stained the ground. Our enemies had fled, their plans dashed, defeated by the brave spirit of our people. Our humans, though weary and wounded, were triumphant. They had protected their land, their families, their homes.
The battlefield was littered with the wounded, both humans and animals, and it fell to us horses, the survivors, to help tend to the fallen. Our calm, methodical nature was the balm to the carnage, our sturdy bodies carrying away the wounded. We felt the gravity of that day, of the life and death choices that we were all, humans and horses, a part of. And we felt a renewed sense of belonging. We, all of us, horses and humans, had defended our homeland, together.
Later that evening, we horses, tired, dusty and sore, gathered under a vast starry sky, in a field near Hayfield. It was quiet. A silence filled with respect and a kind of weary understanding fell upon us.
We didn't know what tomorrow would hold. The wounds of the day still ached, the screams of the fallen still echoed in our ears. But even in our exhaustion, a feeling of unity coursed through our hearts.
This was the day, we all knew it, that the spirit of the human community, and our own equine resilience, was forever bound. And it was that moment that I felt, for the first time, something far bigger than the simple workhorse existence that had always been my reality.
From that day on, 857 was never just a number to me, it was a year etched forever in the heart of this grey draught horse with a white mane. It was the year we all faced our fear, the year we fought for something bigger than ourselves, the year our bond with our human family solidified forever.
It’s been a long time since 857 AD, but that year still inspires me today. We, the horses of Hayfield, continue to serve our human family in our own way, doing what we do best. But when the skies darken and we hear the distant whispers of danger, we know, deep within our hearts, that we have been through this before, we know what we must do.
And, as always, we stand together.
