Greetings, dear readers! It's Emma, your trusty grey draught mare from the highlands of Scotland. It's been a while since I've had the time to put pen to paper, or rather, hoof to parchment. This year, 0959, has been a busy one for me, and indeed, for all horses across the known world. I felt it was only right to catch you up on the exciting and, at times, turbulent times we've been living through.
For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of meeting me, I hail from a little village called Hayfield, nestled amidst the rolling hills just outside Aberdeen. You know, the sort of place where the air smells of peat smoke and wildflowers, and the sky seems to go on forever. A true horse lover's paradise.
This year, the first whispers of a shift in the wind arrived in the early spring, and with it, the anticipation of a busy summer. For a draught mare like myself, the start of each season brings a fresh sense of purpose and responsibility. After all, a horse's life is all about serving, about hauling heavy loads and being a true partner to humankind.
One morning, I heard the clatter of blacksmith's hammers, a familiar sound that filled the air with excitement. My owner, a sturdy man named Donald, was preparing his wagon for the long journey to the local market in Aberdeen. His cart, a solid oak beauty built for strength and durability, was always packed with an array of items - baskets of fresh-baked bread, bundles of hay, sturdy wooden crates brimming with handcrafted leather goods. These were just some of the goods that would soon be exchanged for coins and provisions.
My legs, powerful and accustomed to the long hours, were already tingling with the thrill of travel. There's something truly invigorating about the smell of crisp morning air and the sight of rolling green hills flashing by as we make our way across the landscape. It's a life that I wouldn't trade for anything, a rhythm that defines the very essence of who I am.
This particular market journey was especially busy. People from all corners of Scotland had flocked to Aberdeen to barter and buy, creating a buzzing atmosphere of laughter, haggling, and bustling activity. You could feel the anticipation and excitement hanging in the air, just waiting for something new, something exciting to occur.
And occur it did. A large, ornate carriage, drawn by a pair of magnificent white stallions, pulled into the market square, sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd. From its gleaming brasswork to the intricate carvings that adorned its sides, it was an absolute spectacle. This, dear readers, was no ordinary carriage. This was the vehicle belonging to King Malcolm, himself.
As the carriage came to a halt, Donald whispered, "It's said the king is planning to host a grand feast to celebrate the arrival of foreign ambassadors from the great kingdoms of Francia. A rare and special occasion." A chill ran down my spine - a royal event? The very air crackled with anticipation.
News travelled fast throughout Hayfield, and word quickly spread that the king would be holding his royal feast at the ancient fortress of Dunottar Castle, nestled upon a rugged crag overlooking the North Sea. Donald, ever eager to witness the spectacle of royalty, packed his cart to the brim with fresh provisions.
We left for Dunottar Castle a week later, and it was a truly memorable journey. The scenery was magnificent, with wild, rolling hills covered in purple heather and crystal clear rivers winding through the heart of the highlands. The castle itself was an impressive sight, its battlements reaching high into the sky like the talons of an ancient bird.
Within its majestic walls, a flurry of activity was in full swing. The scent of spiced meats and roasted vegetables hung thick in the air. The kitchens bustled with cooks, all busily preparing for the great feast. Hundreds of men and women, their faces adorned with curious expressions, were preparing for the event - servants scurrying about in elegant liveries, grooms and groomsmen tending to their horses, and the knights, all decked in gleaming armour, their faces stern and watchful.
Donald, like many of the locals, was drawn to the feast's grandeur and splendour. Even I felt a surge of excitement. While the rest of the guests feasted, Donald and I found ourselves assisting the royal stables. The air was a constant hum of excitement, a swirling medley of unfamiliar voices and clinking of stirrups, all interspersed with the harmonious neighs of excited steeds.
Then came the night of the grand feast. The Great Hall of Dunottar Castle, a vast space echoing with stories of ancient battles and noble deeds, was ablaze with flickering torches. Noblemen, dressed in brocades and velvet, and ladies clad in silks and jewels, graced the hall. The air vibrated with the hum of conversations and the clinking of silver goblets.
The banquet, a feast fit for kings, stretched endlessly along the tables. The guests feasted on wild boar, roasted pheasant, and luscious venison, alongside mounds of fresh vegetables and steaming platters of cheeses and fruits. There was wine that flowed like water and music that soared through the vast hall, its notes painting the air with tales of love and conquest.
King Malcolm himself, adorned with a gold crown and scepter, led the proceedings with a regal grace that had us all mesmerized. He sat on his ornate throne, his gaze steady, his presence imposing, radiating an authority that commanded respect.
Amidst the merriment and laughter, however, I noticed a shadow of concern etched on some of the faces. Foreign ambassadors were always welcome guests at the court, but their presence also carried an undercurrent of unease. These were powerful figures, each representing a world beyond the shores of Scotland, bringing their own traditions, beliefs, and intentions with them.
One particularly striking ambassador, a man named William from the lands of Francia, caught my attention. Tall and strong, with piercing blue eyes and a presence that demanded respect, he spoke with a captivating charm that drew all eyes to him. But his words seemed to carry a hidden meaning, a subtext that made my intuition stir uneasily.
While the others enjoyed themselves, I, like most horses, recognised this man's inner conflict. It was as if he carried within him a yearning for something more, a sense of yearning that resonated deep within my soul. There was a hunger in his eyes, not for food or riches, but for change, for progress.
Over the coming days, the king and the ambassador conversed deeply, Their conversations were a mix of whispers and gestures, punctuated by tense pauses. It was apparent, even from a distance, that these two powerful figures were locked in a silent struggle of wills, negotiating the delicate balance of peace and ambition.
And so, the grand feast ended as abruptly as it began, leaving me pondering the profound questions lurking beneath the surface of the seemingly blissful celebration. What lay ahead for Scotland and the rest of the world, I wondered? Was change truly inevitable, and how would it impact the lives of horses like me? These were the questions that occupied my mind as Donald loaded his cart, eager to return to the familiar comforts of Hayfield.
As I plodded homewards, I noticed the subtle changes around me. The very land itself seemed to be breathing a new rhythm. Even the air, as if imbued with the whispers of distant events, felt a tinge of restlessness.
And so, this is where my story for the year 0959 ends, dear readers. This was the year of the King's feast, a celebration of grandeur that marked a time of immense change in the tapestry of history.
Join me next month, when we will delve further into the changing world around us and explore the stories of horses, kings, and empires, their fates intertwined in the tapestry of history.
Stay curious, and keep neighing!
Emma, Hayfield, Scotland
