History of Horses in the year 0919

Neigh-sayers might argue that a simple mare like me wouldn't have much to contribute to the grand tapestry of history. After all, I’m just a draught horse, a working animal whose life is a cycle of field, furrow, and feed. But I beg to differ, my dear readers! Horses are at the heart of it all, whether we're hauling cargo or carrying heroes to battle, our hooves beat a steady rhythm to the heart of history itself. And so, today, I'll share some of the things I've observed from my little corner of the world, here in Hayfield, just outside Aberdeen.

The year 0919 dawned crisp and cold, a familiar scene for us up here in the north of Scotland. It was another year in the reign of King Constantine, and as usual, our days were full of work, with the winter storms just beginning to ease.

I was just turning twenty then, a big, strong grey mare with a flowing white mane and tail. My stable mate was a handsome chestnut stallion named Samson, with a fiery temper and a penchant for snorting at anything that moved. Despite our differences, we worked well together. My steady nature complemented Samson's enthusiasm, and together, we moved many a cart full of grain, barley, and other goods.

We were owned by a kind farmer named Allan. His family had owned the land for generations, and his respect for horses was ingrained in every one of his descendants. His son, young Robert, was a boy of fourteen, a keen horseman in the making. I fondly remember the day he finally dared to sit on my back, his hands gripping the mane tightly, his face full of awe.

He was our family, our companions in toil and rest. In the mornings, I could hear the faint tinkling of Robert’s small, bell-shaped boots, the distinctive sound of the farmer’s wooden clogs, as we were brought our oats and barley, always a happy occasion for all of us. The aroma of oats was pure joy. It was all so comforting.

The world, though, is much wider than my small pasture, my daily trek to the fields, and back. We might be close to nature, but our work and life in Hayfield always connects to events taking place in distant parts. I’m no scholar, but through conversations overheard at the inn, tales of travelers, and bits of news gleaned from the farmer, I begin to grasp the picture of the world around us.

The world was filled with strife, just as it often is. The Norse were still roaming the lands, causing chaos, raiding settlements and forcing many to pay tribute. King Constantine of Scotland, a strong leader with a firm hand on the reins, was busy holding back the tides of war. I heard whispers of his valiant feats at sea, his struggles with the Norse king, the fearsome, relentless Harald Hardrada. It seemed that constant vigilance and preparedness were the only way to maintain peace and prosperity.

I remember Robert’s face, lit up with awe, when a travelling bard sang a ballad of King Constantine’s great victories. He described how the king led his warriors in a fierce battle against the Norse, the sound of swords clashing and the echoes of the battle cry, “Alba!” It stirred a deep-seated pride within us. We too, even if in our small way, served the good of our country.

We lived a life close to the rhythm of nature, with our reliance on the land for food and livelihood. But we were also steeped in a profound sense of faith. Our lives revolved around the simple rhythm of the Church's bells, a soothing, calming sound in a world filled with uncertainties. Every week, Robert would take me, fully adorned, to the nearby church. It was a privilege, to be a part of such gatherings, with the smells of incense, and hymns sung by the local folk.

My favourite story is about St. Brigid, the patron saint of Ireland. I recall Father Duncan telling Robert how she travelled, just like our travelling merchants, with horses as her faithful companions. He described how the people welcomed her and that the horses seemed to sense the saintly aura surrounding her. It always filled me with joy, for all of us working animals to have someone in Heaven who looked after our kind, a divine friend indeed!

These days, however, are beginning to feel different, and change is in the air. More and more, whispers travel from the south of the country. This time, they spoke of a young king who ascended the throne of England, a man called King Æthelstan. He was a warrior-king, bold and ambitious. His claim to the throne had been contested and his rise had seen him unite the land in unprecedented ways. He built churches and monasteries and was renowned for his fair justice. This is the talk amongst the travellers at the local inn.

I see this change as an exciting time for our world, our horse world. It feels like the times are stirring and a new, stronger era might be on its way. New innovations are on their way – I hear tales of stirrups, more secure saddles for riding, even faster steeds bred for speed, used for the royal cavalry. I long for this time to be as wonderful as everyone seems to hope, a time for strength, growth and even more respect for our kind. We horses are indeed a blessing for humanity. Our strong legs, our ability to endure hardship, make us a necessity, an integral part of the tapestry of life.

And who knows, perhaps someday I'll see these new inventions for myself. Maybe, in this time of change and challenge, my humble life here in Hayfield, working the land, raising a foals, and serving as a loyal companion to my beloved Robert, might someday inspire even more wonderful things.

That, dear readers, is my humble contribution to the grand tale of history. A simple story, penned with hoof prints of affection, love for my life and the hope of a brighter, future, one which values our importance, just as we value our humanity.

I do hope you enjoyed reading my story. Be sure to tune in next month for more, when I'll be sharing a particularly funny tale of a rogue stallion and my attempts to save Robert from his escapades!

Stay safe, my dear fellow Equines. Until next time, keep your heads high!

Love,

Emma