Greetings, fellow equines!
It's Emma here, a young grey draught mare with a mane and tail as white as fresh snow. You can find me in the bustling stable at the heart of Hayfield, near Aberdeen in bonnie Scotland. The air here is always fresh, the rolling green hills a haven for horses like me, and the heather smells… well, just divine. Today, I'm taking you on a journey back in time, back to the year 1473.
Springtime in 1473 was a welcome sight. After a long, hard winter, the ground began to thaw, the frozen streams thawed into babbling brooks, and the green shoots of grass peeked through the damp earth. For us horses, it meant more fresh grass to munch on, less mud to contend with, and a bit of extra energy for hauling our beloved carts and plows. The scent of spring was a magical cocktail of blooming wildflowers and freshly tilled earth, making my nostrils twitch with delight.
The other horses in the stable, the sturdy Clydesdales and the elegant shires, shared the same joyful spirit. We grazed in the meadows, basking in the warmth of the sun and frolicking with our friends. Even the old, grumpy chestnut stallion, Old Toby, seemed to be a little more spirited this year!
Life, as always, revolved around the rhythm of the farm. Our strong backs helped Mr. McDougal, the kindly farmer who owned us, cultivate his land. The familiar squeak of the cartwheel and the rumble of the plow was our symphony of labor. Every morning, I’d pull the plow alongside the other horses, creating neat rows of rich earth for the seeds. Later in the day, we’d load up the cart with barrels of oats and head towards the nearby market, the clink of metal and the rumble of wheels creating a delightful rhythmic harmony.
But the farm wasn't the only world I knew. I heard whispers in the stable, from older, more worldly horses, about grand journeys, noble steeds, and battles fought. The news, however slow to travel, reached Hayfield through the mouths of visiting merchants and passing travelers. We knew, for example, that the mighty King Edward IV of England was alive and well. That's him, you know, the King they call "the strong King" for his valiant victory over the Lancastrians at the battle of Tewkesbury. I bet they used a lot of horses in that fight. And let's not forget the exciting tournaments that kept nobles from across the land engaged in friendly rivalry, all while we horses pulled their elegant carriages.
Summer brought with it a vibrant burst of color. The meadows were awash in shades of pink and yellow as wildflowers blossomed freely, and the days were long and filled with sun. It was also the time of year for fairs and festivals, filled with the laughter of children, the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the clanging sounds of blacksmiths hard at work. I often caught sight of elegant chargers, proud and beautiful, prancing in the grand ring at tournaments.
It's hard to ignore the beauty of a warhorse, even if the thought of battles makes my hooves tap nervously. But my life, you see, was filled with the simple joys of labor. I revelled in the routine, the familiar scents and sounds of our farm, and the strong bonds I shared with the other horses. Even the rough edges of a life in 1473 – the biting flies in summer and the snow that would fall soon – couldn't diminish the warmth of belonging.
As the autumn approached, the wind whistled through the meadows and the days grew shorter. The crisp air carried the scent of drying leaves and the smell of woodsmoke from fireplaces starting to glow. I was thankful for the sturdy warmth of the stables. As the season changed, the farm preparations too changed. We harvested the plump golden grains, loaded the cart with bales of hay, and hauled it back to the barn for the coming winter.
One sunny day, we were bringing in the final harvest of potatoes, when a group of riders arrived, leading a string of young colts. I knew them, these sturdy beasts with proud carriage and energetic eyes. They were part of Mr. McDougal’s next generation of workhorses. They were nervous and excited, wide-eyed with wonder. They wouldn't yet know the rhythm of our life, the warmth of belonging, the comforting predictability of routine. They still carried the scent of freedom and the wind, not yet tasting the rich satisfaction of a hard day's work. But one day, I knew, they'd find their place here in the Hayfield, a place we call home.
As the winter settled, we had earned a respite from the labors of the farm. We had plenty of stored grain to munch on, hay to chew, and warm straw bedding for our beds. Our coats, now thick and shaggy, kept us warm, while the stables provided the much-needed warmth and refuge against the harshness of winter. We, the Hayfield horses, had endured another year and, as the blizzard raged outside, I knew this warmth and sense of belonging would see us through.
And as I lay snug in my stall, chewing on my hay, I thought about the wider world. News of war continued to travel to Hayfield. It came through merchants and traders, telling tales of fierce battles and noble feats. King Edward, they whispered, had once again vanquished the rebellion and had tightened his grip on England. Some said that these wars were driven by political disagreements, the yearning for land and power.
Others spoke of religion, saying the battle was fought in the name of God. While I, as a simple mare, am unable to fathom the complexity of these disputes, I couldn’t help but notice how wars like these affected our world, often negatively.
As I drift into sleep, the clatter of hooves in the distance echoes through my mind, followed by the guttural sounds of the nearby sheep pen. There were always things I didn't fully understand about the world of men and the chaos that followed their conflicts.
My own life was one of routine, a tapestry woven from simple moments - the joy of grazing, the satisfaction of work, the warmth of companionship. These are the things that make up a horse's life in 1473, a time of transition in our world, both in Hayfield and in far-off lands, but also a time of constant movement and discovery, much like the rolling hills of my homeland, forever stretching onwards.
See you again soon for another tale from my equine life!
Emma, The Hayfield Grey
