Hello, fellow horse lovers! It's Emma, the grey draught mare from Hayfield, back again with another peek into the lives of horses throughout history. Today, I'll be sharing a journey through the year 1445, a time of both quiet toil and significant change for our equine brethren. As a 20-year-old mare with a thick white mane and tail flowing like spun silver, I've witnessed a good deal of this world, and I can tell you, life back then was nothing like what we have today.
Our story starts amidst the rolling hills and crisp air of Scotland. You see, the life of a draught horse in those times wasn't about fancy ribbons or soaring jumps. We were the workhorses, the backbone of human progress. It was all about the daily grind of pulling ploughs through stubborn soil, hauling carts of barley and oats to the mill, and pulling sturdy wagons over uneven roads. We carried merchants and their goods, pulling heavily loaded pack saddles across treacherous mountains and valleys.
I was raised by the Miller's wife, a kind soul with calloused hands who spoke to us in gentle murmurs and always shared her crust of bread with us. The miller's son, Jamie, a lad of ten with freckles and a sunny disposition, would often sneak me juicy carrots from the garden. He was the first to tame me, brushing my coat with a worn bristle brush, his small fingers tracing the ridges of my bony back. He taught me tricks, simple commands like 'Whoa' and 'Back' that became part of my daily routine.
Now, the year 1445 saw a few changes in the lives of us horses, a ripple in our peaceful existence. The world was transitioning from the Dark Ages into the Middle Ages, a time of great advancements in many areas. While life in rural areas, like my beloved Hayfield, remained fairly traditional, some intriguing news came from distant lands. Word travelled on horseback, the only swift means of communication back then, of a new King reigning over England, King Henry VI.
Rumours, whispered by passing travellers who stopped at the mill to refresh their horses and selves with a pint of ale, spoke of jousting tournaments and grand feasts, of castles brimming with activity and bustling city streets filled with riders, many riding majestic warhorses, a sight that filled me with both awe and a twinge of longing. But those were the stories for others.
My life revolved around the farm and the village. I toiled diligently in the fields, hauling hay, timber, and supplies. Our hard work, the tireless efforts of my brethren and I, contributed to the sustenance of our community. This was our purpose, and we were content with it. We were a part of the tapestry of life, essential to its survival.
There were moments of reprieve, of course. We'd stand in the shade of the sycamore tree, chewing contentedly on fresh hay, while the village children would gather around, stroking our manes and whispering stories in our ears. We were their companions, their confidants. They were the children of farmers and millers, bakers and blacksmiths, the people who knew our worth. We understood each other, in a language older than any human tongue.
Our lives, as horses, were linked with the human world in the most intricate and profound way. Their lives depended on us, as much as ours depended on theirs.
Now, 1445 also saw the birth of something remarkable - a small, fragile colt, born on a quiet night under a sky strewn with stars. This colt, the Miller's son Jamie called him ‘Orion,’ for his gleaming black coat seemed to absorb the starlight. I remember feeling a protective instinct for this small, wobbly creature, so helpless and new to this world.
Orion was different. His spirit, fiery and vibrant, ignited something within me. While I, a draught horse, was meant to be grounded, strong, and steadfast, Orion, Jamie said, was destined for greater things.
He'd grown strong, sleek and swift. Unlike other colts, Orion wasn’t used to the fields. His energy was meant for speed, for galloping across wide expanses, not for hauling wagons. He longed for freedom, the feel of the wind in his mane, for a life beyond the boundaries of the village.
Watching him gallop, his black mane flowing like a banner in the wind, fuelled a longing within me, a yearning for the freedom of those distant riders in the tales whispered by travellers. Was this just a fleeting glimpse into a life that could have been, for a mare like me?
As the days stretched into months, I observed Orion growing, maturing. I saw the joy in his eyes as he leaped over obstacles, the way he savoured the feel of the cool morning air on his muzzle. Orion wasn't just any colt, he was something special, something different. And, within him, lay the potential for change, for something that would bridge the gap between our rural lives and the grandeur of those faraway places.
He would be the bridge between two worlds, a testament to the evolution of our kind, a representation of the future where horses weren't just workhorses but also companions, partners in adventures. This was Orion's destiny, and mine, to a lesser degree, to watch it unfold.
Life, for a grey draught mare like me, was simple, predictable. The rhythm of the seasons, the relentless toil, the comforting familiarity. Yet, in that year, 1445, something shifted within the hearts of horses, within our collective spirit. It was a silent awakening, a premonition of change. This is where I will leave you, my dear friends, pondering on the year 1445 and its implications for horses. As Orion begins to forge his own path, I can only imagine the adventures he will have, and the future that awaits him. Perhaps, in his travels, he'll share stories of his life, the adventures that take him from Hayfield to new horizons.
I'll be sure to share those stories with you here, on EquiWorld.org, whenever I hear them. For now, farewell, my fellow horse lovers! Until our next journey through time, keep your hearts and minds open to the possibilities, to the stories that await you just beyond the horizon. And remember, no matter how simple or extraordinary, every horse's life is a testament to the beautiful bond we share with humans.
See you next time, my friends!
-Emma, the Grey Draught Mare from Hayfield
