Year: 1062, Hayfield near Aberdeen, Scotland
Hello, dear fellow equines! My name is Emma, and I’m a grey draught mare with a splash of white in my mane and tail, standing a proud 16 hands high. Today I'm going to take you on a little journey through time, back to the year 1062. That's where I was born, you know!
The air was fresh and crisp that year, the heather was in bloom, and the sky was always a vast blue canvas. Hayfield, my home, was a tiny village nestled among the rolling hills. There was a small stream nearby that meandered through the meadows, perfect for cooling off on a warm summer's day. My early years were idyllic, filled with the comforting smells of hay, the rhythm of hooves against the earth, and the reassuring presence of my family - my mother, Blossom, my brothers, Angus and Rowan, and my sisters, Daisy and Willow.
We lived a simple life. The men and women of the village used us for farm work, helping them to till the soil, to haul wood, to pull carts laden with barley and oat, to take them to markets and gather in crops. Life was hard work, but there was joy to be found in the company of our kind and in the daily tasks that defined our existence.
Life wasn't always about work though, we horses had our own playful games and rituals, racing through the meadows in the soft light of dawn, chasing the wind, our manes and tails flying, our hooves beating a rhythmic tattoo on the ground. There was a beautiful harmony between our lives and the natural world.
I'd often stand in the stable, my body weary from the day’s labour, watching the sun dip behind the hills. I'd be bathed in a warm orange light, my hooves brushing the straw that formed a comfortable bed for me. I couldn’t help but be filled with gratitude for the simplicity of it all. I was healthy, strong, and content with my lot.
Of course, like most horses, I craved a sense of freedom, a yearning for wider pastures. But the villagers here were kind, treating us well. There were a couple of young children in the village who adored our presence. I would often be led out to a grassy paddock, a young boy or girl running alongside, patting my back gently and stroking my neck. It made my heart swell, their tiny hands holding such genuine affection.
The World of Horses in 1062
While we were hard at work on the farm in Hayfield, horses throughout the world were fulfilling different roles, a fact that never ceased to fascinate me. My friend, a black stallion called Finn, had a cousin in Constantinople who was the star performer in the Hippodrome. It was truly the place to be seen for horses with a talent for racing, and he was a legend, loved by the emperor.
Meanwhile, out on the steppes of Asia, other horses were making a name for themselves as part of the nomadic peoples. The horses in those parts, Finn confided, were exceptionally hardy, their spirit as free as the wind, accustomed to traversing the harsh, sweeping landscapes of their homeland.
In my own homeland of Scotland, we were part of a larger story - a rich history woven through battles and conquests. Even though we, the work horses, weren't necessarily in the midst of battles, we played our vital part, transporting soldiers, helping with their supply lines, carrying provisions and ammunition. And in 1062, it was a year of increasing tension and upheaval. The news would come back with the riders from nearby castles - whispers of a powerful, charismatic, yet ruthless king who was making his presence known on the English stage.
It was a time when the world was constantly in motion, the landscape ever-changing, and our lives as horses intertwined with these momentous events.
I wasn’t aware of the significance of these changes when they were happening. All I knew was that there was a lot more travelling back and forth by the warriors, a lot more tension in the air. It filled me with a subtle, persistent unease, like a constant low rumble in the earth.
My Life Takes a Turn
Then came the day that changed everything. It was late summer, the days growing shorter and cooler, and a shiver went down my spine, the way it sometimes does before a storm. I remember watching from the stables as a troop of armed men entered the village. There was an air of urgency to their movements, and my heart thumped in my chest. I knew this was no ordinary day.
They were men-at-arms from the nearby castle, clad in leather armour, with fierce, bearded faces. They carried long lances and wore shining swords at their hips. As they approached the stables, a tremor of fear shot through me.
What were they doing here?
They sought the strongest horse in the village. It was Rowan, my brother, with his broad chest and powerful frame. A great sense of protectiveness overwhelmed me - a desire to shield my brother from any possible harm. But there was nothing I could do, only stand there, my heart heavy with a mix of fear and confusion, as he was led away, a shadow cast by the long shadows of the lance-carrying men.
He would never be back.
Rowan's absence, a palpable gap in the bustling life of the stable, was like a knife twisting in my gut. But there was no time to dwell on sadness. Life went on. We carried on our duties, the men working with grim determination on the fields, a tension underlying their actions. It was like an unspoken, yet inescapable fact hanging in the air - war was approaching, and I knew, with an unnerving certainty, that our role would be crucial.
That’s where I’ll leave you today. I hope you found this post both engaging and informative!
Remember to check back for our next blog, as we travel back to 1066. It is a year of incredible events and huge shifts in the political landscape.
Until then, keep those hooves tapping, my friends!
Emma
