Hayfield, near Aberdeen, Scotland
Spring 1244
The daffodils are bursting open, their sunny yellow faces a welcome sight after a long, harsh winter. I feel the change in the air; the frost is finally gone and a gentle breeze whispers tales of new beginnings. It’s time to start work again after a well-deserved rest.
Being a grey draught horse means life is busy, even in a peaceful little place like Hayfield. Our family is one of many that toils in the fields, helping the farmers grow the grain that feeds our village. We pull heavy ploughs, carrying the weight of expectations, and deliver crops to the bustling market in Aberdeen.
I, Emma, am 20 years old. I’m not a filly any more, not a colt, either - I’m a mare now. Strong, sturdy, with a grey coat that gleams like polished silver under the sun. My mane and tail are pure white, a cascade of snowy strands against the grey of my body. I like to think of them as a crown and a plume, befitting a queen of the field.
My human, Farmer MacGregor, is kind and understanding, and treats us all well. He feeds us oats and hay, makes sure our harnesses fit comfortably, and lets us rest when we are tired. He calls me “Emma,” sometimes adding, "my faithful grey," with a soft smile in his kind blue eyes.
This year, there's a new feel to the air. The rumour is that King Alexander II of Scotland is embarking on a great pilgrimage to Rome, bringing his entourage of horses, men and women along the journey. The journey is meant to last months and cover thousands of miles! Imagine – crossing whole lands on horseback, seeing sights and cultures beyond the rolling green hills of our home! We’ve heard tales from travelling merchants, their horses bearing tales of grand castles, exotic lands and towering churches in the faraway land of Italy.
My own adventures are much humbler. This morning, we were all pulling together to plant barley in the fertile field by the River Dee. I felt the pull of the plough against my powerful muscles, the deep furrow rising and falling with each measured step. It’s hard work, but rewarding. The smell of fresh turned soil is a tonic, and the camaraderie of the other horses in the field, a reassuring comfort. We work together, our strength joined in harmony. Each horse contributing its share to the effort, their snorts and rhythmic movements a silent song of cooperation.
My filly, Thistle, follows close behind me, a playful twinkle in her large, brown eyes. She is learning the ways of the field, eager to grow strong and become a powerful draught horse like her mother. She tugs at the harness with playful determination, occasionally looking at me with questions in her big, dark eyes.
“Do you know about Rome?” She asked yesterday, while nibbling at the juicy clover.
I chuckled, feeling a pang of nostalgia. “Rome? It’s a long way away, Thistle. The tales tell of a city with marble buildings taller than the oaks in the woods, paved roads filled with people from across the world, and shops brimming with treasures and strange spices. But you will have plenty of adventures, my little filly, without needing to travel that far."
Her brown eyes narrowed with concentration. "You mean, we’ll have our own adventures, even in Hayfield?"
I nuzzled her affectionately, "Yes, Thistle. Every day is an adventure here. The sunshine after rain, the first blossom of spring, the thrill of a new journey… these are our own little wonders, my filly. Enjoy them.”
The world of horses in 1244 is vast and vibrant. In England, they say that horses are getting bigger, more powerful and stronger. They tell tales of warhorses, knights, and grand tournaments where brave riders battle for glory.
I listen with wonder to these stories, even if our lives in Hayfield are far from the grandeur of the battlefield. Here, the battles are fought against the elements, against the unforgiving demands of the fields and the exhaustion that can sometimes weigh heavy on our tired bodies.
In these peaceful corners of Scotland, life revolves around the rhythm of the seasons. The horses here are strong and sure-footed, bred for stamina, not speed, for pulling heavy loads, not racing across the meadows. We are a sturdy breed, built for work and quiet devotion, like the farmers who care for us and rely on our strength.
But even in our simple existence, there are moments of beauty, moments of shared connection. As I see the sunset bathe the field in a golden glow, my heart swells with gratitude for this life, for the gentle touch of the breeze on my coat, for the camaraderie of my fellow horses. It's these small moments, these shared connections, that make our lives, simple though they may seem, so rich.
Summer 1244
The days grow long and bright, filled with sunshine and the buzzing of bees. The summer air smells of blooming wildflowers, the hayfields bursting with golden wheat, ripe for harvest. Our work has intensified, the tempo of the day quicker and busier. We pull wagons piled high with sheaves of wheat, their scent mingling with the dust kicked up by our hooves, the heat of the day clinging to our sweat-dampened flanks.
Thistle is learning fast. She stands tall, her coat catching the sunlight as she trots beside me, her long legs moving with increasing power and confidence. She’s growing strong and powerful, ready to pull her own weight.
We even go to the nearby market with the farmer in Aberdeen. It's a noisy place, bustling with merchants, vendors, and people. I see other horses, all shapes and sizes. Some sleek, finely bred animals with proud riders. Others, stout and hardy like ourselves, pulling carts laden with wares. But all, united in purpose, carrying their burden, moving forward.
On this day, Thistle learns something new.
“What is that?” She whispered, pointing a velvet-nosed muzzle at a brightly coloured cart overflowing with beautiful, long-stemmed roses.
“Those are flowers, Thistle,” I replied, sensing the awe in her voice. "They’re beautiful and delicate, much unlike the hard-working flowers that bloom in our meadows, providing honey for the bees and seeds for the birds.”
"Can we carry them, mama?” she asked with a bright, hopeful gaze.
“Not today, my little filly,” I answered. "But you might find them adorning a lady’s hair in Aberdeen or maybe in the window of a tavern, making it brighter and more inviting. You see, Thistle, every creature has its purpose, every being contributes to the beauty of the world in its own way. We carry burdens, flowers bring beauty.”
This summer, a strange tension runs through Hayfield, though we haven't seen any knights or warriors pass through our village. Yet, there’s a sense of anticipation, a vague whisper in the wind that something is brewing in the wider world, beyond the familiar comfort of our fields.
The people speak in hushed tones of a “new danger”, of a king called Khan who is gathering an army of mighty warriors, riding strong steeds, in faraway lands. These men, it’s said, are fierce, riding like the wind and with intentions that frighten even the most seasoned knights.
Their stories are as colourful as the flowers that fill the carts, but even I, an unassuming farm horse, can feel the unease, a tremor in the ground beneath my hooves, like the faint vibration of a distant earthquake. It's a disquiet that affects even us, our workhorses.
As the summer draws to a close, we work hard, ensuring there's enough hay stored for the long, dark days to come, and a reserve of oats and barley for the coldest months when the fields lay dormant under a blanket of snow.
I try to remain calm, reassuring Thistle that our lives in Hayfield, peaceful and uncomplicated, are a haven from the world's troubled storms. I can’t tell her the stories that worry our farmers, stories that make their voices crack with concern, stories of armies marching, swords flashing, and whispers of battles in the east, far away but still threatening our tranquil peace.
As the days grow shorter and the wind whispers of change, I find comfort in the warm company of Thistle, my filly. We share our burdens, our worries, and our simple joy in the everyday routine. In these shared moments, I feel the deep bond that unites us, mother and filly, workhorse and filly, a silent connection that is stronger than fear.
Autumn 1244
The golden leaves dance on the wind, their hues mimicking the fiery oranges, burnished reds and vibrant yellows of the sky. The days have grown cooler and crisp, the air infused with a pungent earthy smell.
It’s time to let go of the fields, time for rest, time for reflection. Our workload has slowed down as the harvests are brought in and the fields lie empty. The world settles into its quiet autumn rhythm. The farmers store their bounty and gather around their hearth in preparation for the cold winter ahead.
I can almost feel the shift, the earth breathing in preparation for a long slumber, the horses restless as their instincts tell them of changing times. I, too, sense a shifting in the wind. A different kind of change. I can feel it in the way the farmers gather at dusk, the hushed tones of their conversations, the far-off sounds of soldiers training in the village, preparing for what we don't know, yet instinctively fear.
One night, while nibbling the sweet meadow grass in the dimming light of dusk, Thistle came to me, her voice soft and hesitant. “Mama,” she said, her eyes wide, “they’re talking about… about… a king called…Khan…he is coming…”
The truth finally surfaced, breaking through the quiet, blissful ignorance I had tried to preserve for her. I pulled her close, sharing her anxieties. “We’ve heard stories about him, little filly,” I said, “about a mighty force moving towards our lands, like a dark cloud approaching the horizon. But worry not. Our village, our farmers, they’ll do all they can to protect us. And the king… our King Alexander, will fight against this darkness, defending our lands.”
I felt a tremor in my heart, a silent echo of the anxiety I couldn’t shake off. But in that moment, with Thistle pressed close against me, I knew my job, my instinct, was to keep her safe, to offer a place of comfort and peace. I must shield her from the shadows lurking on the edge of our world.
There are moments of quiet beauty that pierce the apprehension of the season, like the spectacle of a red-tailed hawk soaring above us, or the gentle dance of the leaves as they fall gracefully to earth. These glimpses of grace remind me that even in the face of uncertainty, beauty and strength persist.
Our farmer, despite his concerns, is busy preparing for the coming winter. We are fed well, our stable is cleaned every day, and our blankets are kept in order. He seems to be making preparations not only for the harsh season but for something else, something more… uncertain.
We are sheltered in our stable, safe from the cold wind. We hear hushed whispers, see worried faces, and feel a collective tension that blankets our normally peaceful community. It’s as if we, the horses of Hayfield, are standing at the precipice of history. It is hard to believe that what started as tales told in whispers could come to pass. It is hard to accept that the quiet, ordinary world we know may be on the verge of transformation.
As the autumn descends further, and winter begins its slow, cold encroachment, I hold onto the memories of the warmth and abundance of summer. And I remind myself that even the harshest of winters will pass, giving way to a new spring, a new beginning, filled with promise and renewal. And for Thistle, for her growing, watchful, inquisitive mind, I promise to remain a beacon of hope, of unwavering love, a rock in the face of changing tides, a shield against the storm. For she is my responsibility, my legacy, and the future of Hayfield, resting safely within my heart, a promise for a new dawn.
End of Post # 1244
