Hello there, my dear fellow equines and horse-loving friends! Emma here, a grey draught mare from Hayfield near Aberdeen, and welcome back to my little corner of Equiworld! Today, we're stepping back in time to the year 1181, a time when the world was a different place, even for us horses!
Now, 1181 wasn't all that long ago, just a blink in the grand scheme of equine history, but it was a time of change and intrigue. My human friends were, well, busy being human, with their battles and politics, while we horses continued to play our crucial roles in their lives, in ways you might not imagine.
Let's start with my own world. My life is as simple as it is full. I wake up to the soft glow of dawn, munching on the sweetest barley straw and the juiciest clover, before spending my days pulling the plough, my strong legs churning the soil for the coming harvest. My human friend, Angus, is a gentle soul with kind hands. He whistles a cheery tune while he harnesses me, and we talk, in our own way, of course, about the weather and the harvest.
In those days, Hayfield was a quiet place. Not many horses like me, strong enough to pull the plough, resided here. Most were smaller, quicker steeds used for riding and transport. And though we draught horses weren't as glamorous as our spirited cousins, we were essential. Without us, no crops would grow, and everyone would go hungry!
Speaking of hunger, food was very much on people's minds in 1181. There was a bad harvest the previous year, and grain was scarce. You wouldn't believe the queue at the mill! The humans would line up for hours, waiting for their meagre rations, with carts full of oats and barley slowly unloaded from the backs of tired, overworked horses. I sometimes felt sad seeing their worn faces and listening to their hushed whispers. It's a tough life when there isn't enough to eat, especially for those who have worked so hard to grow the very food they need.
But even with the tough times, there was beauty. Hayfield was a symphony of colors in the summertime. The fields were a patchwork of green barley and golden oat, while wildflowers splashed a brilliant rainbow of yellow, blue, and purple, drawing in busy bees and buzzing wasps. My human friends loved the wildflowers, too, weaving them into colorful wreaths for their hair and decorating their homes. The air was alive with the sound of birdsong, and at night, the sky twinkled with millions of stars, like glittering diamonds scattered across the dark canvas.
I often gazed up at those stars, letting my imagination take flight. I dreamt of adventures, of galloping through the wind, exploring faraway lands. But even with such dreams, I was content. Life in Hayfield was simple, hard work, but ultimately fulfilling. It was good to know that I was needed, that I was contributing to the community, however humble my role might be.
However, there was another world outside of Hayfield, a world much more exciting but also more turbulent. This was the world of kings and knights, of war and conquest. My ears would perk up whenever the travelling merchants or the monks passed by, bringing news from the faraway corners of the land.
They'd speak of King Henry II, a man of power and ambition, who ruled over much of England, as well as parts of France, holding court in his magnificent castle, Windsor. This king had big plans for his empire and his power, as most kings do. You see, in those days, it was common for kingdoms to fight each other for territory and resources. This made for exciting stories to listen to, although I must confess, war never seemed as romantic to me as it did to some of the young, spirited humans who'd gathered around to hear these stories.
They’d tell tales of brave knights riding their magnificent steeds across battlefields, with plumes of dust billowing behind them, clashing their swords and charging at enemy lines. Their hearts beat faster, their faces lit up with excitement and longing. The mere thought of joining those battles, fighting for a king and winning fame, was enough to make these youngsters yearn for adventure. I admit, sometimes, even I felt a surge of something, an urge to be a part of that excitement. But then I’d remind myself, a war horse needs a calm temperament, a reliable, steady stride. My destiny, my calling, lay in the field, in helping feed people and grow crops, not in conquering kingdoms.
There was a constant simmer of discontent brewing in France, where people weren't too fond of Henry’s control over their lands. They grumbled about the taxes he levied and the heavy hand he imposed. King Henry wasn’t known for his easygoing nature; he was considered a tough ruler, demanding obedience and allegiance, and some would argue, not afraid to punish those who didn't bend to his will.
However, he did have a great passion for horses, it must be said. He loved them for their speed, strength, and agility. They were symbols of power, and he rode them with an air of authority that could be felt across the land. Imagine that! It made me wonder what it felt like to be the king of kings and rule over the mightiest animals on Earth.
But there was trouble in France, not just for humans but for horses as well. News arrived from there, whispered like secrets in the night, of horses suffering from an awful disease. It spread quickly through their fields, taking the strong and the young with it, leaving behind empty stalls and heavy hearts.
What this sickness was, nobody was entirely sure. They called it "The Plague." It was an awful word, full of fear and dread. It was a terrible time for our brethren. They said it was contagious, spread through the air like invisible whispers. Horses succumbed rapidly, coughing and staggering before collapsing in agony. This "Plague" made even the bravest human hearts quiver with anxiety. I knew I was safe in my peaceful Hayfield, but it wasn't just a whisper. It was a haunting spectre, a chilling reminder that danger could lurk anywhere.
My thoughts would often wander back to the brave, powerful steeds of the kings, the beautiful and proud creatures that were their mounts, and how their fate could be so precarious. They would have a brief moment of glory, a surge of adrenaline in battle, then a whisper of a disease could bring them down.
They say King Henry’s son, young Richard, was a keen horseman, and his relationship with his horse was much like that between a good rider and a loyal companion, like the bonds I have with my Angus. The story of this pair, of how they charged onto battlefields and fought side by side, inspired countless songs and poems. But, it made me realize, horses were tools, as important as they were, ultimately subservient to their humans.
Sometimes, while working, I’d stand in the stable, gazing at my reflection in the polished wood, my thick, white mane and tail shimmering in the lamplight. In these quiet moments, I wondered, what if things were different? What if we, the horses, could decide our own fates, lead our own lives, travel our own paths? The world, it seemed, was full of wonders and mysteries.
In 1181, the world was in a state of change, of progress, and at times, great chaos. Humans were exploring, innovating, building grand castles and navigating challenging seas. It was a world that felt both familiar and strangely different at the same time, with familiar fears and new discoveries unfolding simultaneously.
I, a humble grey draught mare, was but a small part of that grand world, but that didn’t mean my life wasn't just as significant. In Hayfield, I played my role. Every day I was reminded of the importance of community, hard work, and the value of simple joys. But I also carried within me a yearning for the unknown, a desire to understand the world outside my field and a glimmer of a wish for freedom, a wild dream for a world where horses, like myself, would be valued for who we are and for our own strengths and passions.
Until next time, dear friends. May your hay be sweet and your hooves always strong!
Yours in hoofbeats,
Emma, the Grey Mare
