It was a fine day in early March when the King, accompanied by a small retinue, rode forth for a morning canter. Mounted upon his favourite thoroughbred, he was keen to survey his arable lands as spring gathered force. They rode into the sun, still low in the sky; neither horse nor rider noticed the molehill - the horse's left foreleg sank deep into the soft soil, toppling the horse and throwing the rider. The King lay on the ground, his peruke and tricorn hat in a muddy puddle. Unhurt but furious, he stood up, straightened his sword belt and covered his bald pate. His first reaction was to kick the horse's head. He stopped himself, attempting to douse his fury and regain his dignity. Then he looked around at the expressions of his riding companions for any trace of a smirk.
They knew better, however, and each man managed to display a passable degree of shock - sympathy indeed - upon his visage. The King's face and clothes muddy, unable to muster a dignified pose for the occasion, he called to his Equerry. "How is my horse?"
The Equerry dismounted and ran over to the fallen animal. "I'm afraid, your Majesty," he said after the briefest of examinations, "that the leg is broken. The bone shows through."
The horse was in agony.
It had always been conscious of the fact that it was a special horse, a chosen horse; for the human that rode it was higher in the hierarchy than any other human. This was something the horse had intuited from all the interactions observed between the humans at the stables where it lived. And then a sudden reflection - in situations such as this which the horse had witnessed in the past, whether on a battlefield or on a hunt, when another equine fell, the unfortunate beast was more usually than not put down; a firearm put to its head - an explosion - smoke - after which the fallen horse was silent and still. Dead. Would this fate meet it too?
Or was it too important?
A discussion between the King and the Equerry. Some waving of hands. Emotions. Some shouting. Then calm. Resolution. The King spoke to an officer; an order was given, a man dismounted. The King took his place, and galloped back towards his palace, followed by several of his men. The Equerry remained by the animal, feeling its fetlock and shin, assessing the injury. The human's calm demeanour reassured the horse. They were not far from the palace, the ride had only begun. It would be a long and painful return, however, limping back to the stables, but the King's favourite horse managed to return home, the Equerry at his side all the way.
The King gave an order to his Bailiff: "Your men are to dig up yonder field to the depth of two feet, starting from every molehill. You are to catch as many moles as you can, and then hang them alive by their hind paws from a string tied between two poles, to be pecked to death by the kestrels." As he did so, the King could feel a sharp pain in the base of his spine that would trouble him for the rest of the day and into the night. His sleep was poor, despite a copious amount of wine with his dinner, a dispensation the King gave himself that Lenten evening.
In the stables, the horse was confined to its stall, its left foreleg bound tight with wooden splints. The Farrier had done an excellent job, doing all he could to ensure that the King's horse would be comfortable despite its injury. Throughout the process, the horse felt secure; it knew the humans tending to its injuries were caring and responsible people. It felt the pain would go away in time, that the leg would mend, but also it sensed that it would never return to galloping with the King. Life would not return to how it was.
The following day, the King decided not to go for a ride, but to walk instead. He called for his Confessor and Equerry to accompany him. The route took them to a hill from which they could look down over the field in which the previous day's accident had occurred. Gazing across, the King was pleased to see a group of labourers with spades digging the field over.
As they walked, they conversed. The day was overcast and colder; spring felt further away. The King enjoyed discussions with his Confessor, a man he could trust with his deepest secrets and whose advice was more than simply telling him what he thought he wished to hear. The Confessor was well read in philosophy, history and alchemy, and spoke in a way that forced to the King to reason more clearly.
"Tell me," said the Confessor, "How did your horse come to exist?"
"It was born of its dam and its sire," replied the King.
"And who chose the dam; who chose the sire, your Majesty?"
"I was guided in my choice by my Equerry - perhaps, if my memory fails me not - by my Equerry's father, when he served in that role."
"Yes, indeed, shortly before my father's passing, just before I stepped into his shoes," agreed the Equerry.
"So - without the stallion and mare being brought together through your father, and of course the King, this animal would not have come into this world?" The Equerry nodded.
The King pondered too - knowing his Confessor, he knew that this line of thinking would be leading somewhere.
This time last year:
Hoofing it
(Not horses - Nordic walking!)
This time four years ago:
Signals from space - what's the meaning of 187.5?
This time five years ago:
Ice - proceed with utmost care
This time six years ago:
In which I see a wild boar crossing the frozen ponds
This time seven years ago:
Communicating the government's case in English
This time nine years ago:
Thinking big, American style. Can Poles do it?
This time ten years ago:
Inequality in an age of economic slowdown
This time 11 years ago:
The Palace of Culture: Tear it down?
This time 13 years ago:
Conquering Warsaw's highest snow mounds
This time 14 years ago:
Flashback on way to Zielona Góra
This time 15 years ago:
Ursynów, winter, before sunrise
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