A Greying Mare’s Perspective
Greetings, fellow equines and lovers of horses! Emma here, your friendly neighbourhood draught mare from Hayfield, a picturesque little village nestled near Aberdeen in Scotland. I am writing to you today, hooves tapping happily on the rough-hewn wooden floor of my stable, about my life in the year of our Lord 1447.
It was a bustling year, full of work, a dash of danger, and even a little romance. I was turning 20 that year, a bit old for a young mare like myself. My grey coat, flecked with white, held the wisdom of experience, my mane and tail flowing with a creamy sheen like moonlight on water. My days were filled with hauling and pulling, moving loads of hay and timber, assisting with the plough and tending the fields. It was tiring work, but it kept me fit and healthy, and the rhythmic sound of my hooves against the cobbles was music to my ears.
Life in Hayfield
Hayfield was a simple community, relying heavily on the skill and strength of its people, as well as its horses. The villagers were a good sort, caring and appreciative. They gave me the best barley and oats, cleaned my stable meticulously, and rubbed my back when I returned weary from a day's work.
I loved the strong aroma of fresh-baked bread wafting from the baker's oven and the sweet, earthy scent of newly-turned soil in the spring. There was also a little foal named Willow, born to a dappled mare called Elsie. It was Willow's first year, and my, she was a rambunctious little thing. She followed me everywhere, nipping at my heels with her playful teeth, eager to learn everything about the world.
But 1447 was not all peaceful rolling green hills and gentle breezes. It was the year that Scotland's king, James II, was declared of age. The King, although still quite young, was a strong leader, known for his fierceness and love of hunting. There was a sense of unrest in the air, of growing conflict with England. This was also the year the young King decided to build Stirling Castle - a feat of architecture that brought countless horses to the region, each one working tirelessly to carry stone and build its majestic towers.
A Visit From The Knights
One crisp autumn morning, we received an unexpected visitor. A group of knights rode into our village, their armour glinting under the early sun, accompanied by their steeds - majestic chargers with sleek, muscular forms and plumes of feathers atop their helmets. They were there to purchase some of the village's finest draught horses. We all held our breath as the knights surveyed us, their discerning eyes assessing our strength and temperament.
I remember it well, the moment my name was called. My heart thumped against my ribs as a knight, with a beard as fiery red as the setting sun, laid a hand upon my strong back. His touch was light yet authoritative, his smile warm and reassuring. I felt the same familiar spark of curiosity and a hint of apprehension. He named me the best horse in the village, perfect for his war campaign. It made me both proud and apprehensive - I would be joining the Knights of Stirling, no less.
Farewell to Hayfield
A wave of sadness swept through me as I bid farewell to the quiet rhythm of my Hayfield life, to Willow's excited snorts and the comforting voices of the villagers. But there was also a stirring excitement within me, a yearning for the unknown, the thrill of the open road and the camaraderie of other horses, my brethren.
Joining the King's knights wasn’t easy. We marched tirelessly under the watchful gaze of the Scottish flag, travelled miles on rough roads, our hooves pounding the hard ground, the earth shuddering under our combined strength. It was demanding but it also offered me new sights and sounds, new faces and encounters. The world beyond Hayfield stretched out before me - forests thick with green, meadows ablaze with wildflowers, rugged mountains cloaked in mist, and the roaring sea crashing against the rugged coastline.
Knights and their steeds
During my time with the Knights, I learned a great deal. These warriors depended heavily on their horses. I observed the knight who had chosen me, Lord Archibald, a skilled warrior and a horseman of the highest order. I saw him train his steed, teaching it the finer points of obedience, agility, and strength. I saw how they relied on each other in the thick of battle, forming an unbreakable bond.
The knight, whose charger bore the noble name 'Phoenix,' was both fierce and loyal, his fiery coat a reminder of his bravery and strength. And like Phoenix, all the other steeds were magnificent in their own way - each one a testament to the symbiotic relationship between horse and warrior. They weren’t merely steeds, they were comrades in arms.
We were all a part of a great story, a tapestry woven together by courage, honour, and the sheer resilience of both man and horse. Each one of us a thread, connecting with each other through shared purpose, shared experience, and a deep respect for the other.
From the battlefield to the jousting grounds
I found myself involved in both small skirmishes and grand battles, the air heavy with smoke and the clang of steel, but never forgotten was the honour of standing with a brave warrior in his hour of need. I felt proud when the battle cries echoed across the fields, and thrilled at the feeling of victory when the enemy fled. But amidst the fighting, I found a new passion - jousting.
Knights, dressed in brilliant colours and gleaming armor, challenged each other on the tournament field. Their steeds thundered, their lances shattering upon impact, the sound echoing across the fields. I watched in awe, each joust a ballet of skill, courage, and elegance, both warrior and horse displaying mastery and grace. This wasn't a fight but a celebration, an artistry of human skill and animal prowess combined.
A Time for Reflection
Although the knights and their mounts took all the glory, the horses carrying supplies and working tirelessly behind the scenes were also important, as essential to the success of each jousting competition as the champions themselves.
There were a few moments, however, that left a chill in my heart.
We arrived at the English border - an ominous, fortified line that marked the divide between two warring nations. The tension here was palpable, a heavy, suffocating cloud hanging in the air. It was during this time I learned of a plague sweeping through England, the Great Pestilence, causing untold suffering and deaths. I felt the deep worry, even dread, in the knight's faces. The plague didn't discriminate, claiming men and animals, and was devastating many a village, especially among those less well off, far away from Hayfield’s rolling hills and verdant meadows.
Looking Forward
As 1447 came to a close, I found myself back at the castle, my memories overflowing. Hayfield, my village, was still there, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of war. A little voice inside of me knew this time with the knights was a journey I’d always remember. It was a period of hardship, but also a journey of courage and camaraderie. And within the castle's protective walls, the fires of my spirit still burned, fueled by adventure and the excitement of a new era.
The world, even in this distant past, is full of so many stories. I believe every horse has a story to tell - every hoofbeat echoes through history, carrying a memory, an experience. I look forward to sharing those stories with you, one by one, in my future blog posts, each one a reminder of how powerful, courageous and remarkable we truly are - we, the horses of history.
