My father's story starts in 1325 AD. In that year, the winter was extremely cold and wet across the rolling hills of the Clydesdale farmlands. The icy winds swept in from the Atlantic Ocean and covered the Lowlands of Scotland with sleet and blankets of rolling fog. In the village of Lanark, farmers wondered about the effects of such ill weather on their sheep and cattle. Even the market gardeners became concerned for next year's crop, as their vegetable patches became water logged with streams of thick sticky mud.

One of those families anxiously waiting events, were my grandparents. Known as the McBride's, they lived on a small acreage at the village edge. A grey stoned out house with its thatched roof was home to Malcolm McBride, his wife Margaret and their three children William, Marion and Agnes. During these long winters, the family were very much confined to work on the farm allotment. The nearby town of Lanark was situated on the top of a large hill and the trek to and from the river valley below could be an arduous one for all those who had to make the journey. The family's only relief from a cold days labour in the fields came from a log fire in the centre of the modestly furnished two-roomed house.

Like so many of the other market gardeners in Lanark, my grandparents struggled to make ends meet. Malcolm made extra pennies by carting cattle fodder for farmers in his horse and cart, while Margaret tilled our market garden along with the help of William, their seventeen year old son. As both toiled throughout the day, Nan would try and educate her son as best she could with stories and tales from the family's ancient Celtic past. And after these lessons, Will would often dream at night of what it would be like to accompany the great mythical warrior, Cuchulainn, who protected the immortal souls of those Celtic peoples occupying the lands of Ulster against the evil kingdoms of Munster, Leinster and Connacht in the south of Ireland. Nan use to always say. `Those of the Celtic faith must always be prepared for the battles ahead. One day the Lion of Septebtrion, will come in the name of Cuchulainn and call on the faithful to follow his path to a better Celtic future.'

While Gramps had few expectations of his children, Nan was more ambitious. Often she would do extra housekeeping work on weekends for the more well-to-do families of the Clydesdale valley. As a maid at the many country house afternoon tea parties, Margaret often overheard stories of the outside world and the politics of the day. Many a gentleman farmer would talk of the benefits that Robert the Bruce had brought to the Lowlands since becoming king of an independent Scotland. For more than a decade now of his rule, the Borderlands between Edinburgh and Northumberland had been relatively free of invading English armies. And over these years, industry and trade had expanded between the Scottish towns on the plains below that in turn demanded an ever expanding civil service to keep pace with a bustling economy.

Nan firmly believed that the future of her son, Will, lay outside of having to work in a vegetable garden for the rest of his life and thought a job in the civil service might just be the answer. Some six months before, she had discussed this matter with the village priest. Father Byars was sympathetic and suggested that the young man begin his education by attending parish writing lessons every Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The priest explained to Margaret that all new employees of the nearby Sheriff Offices in Douglas and Hamilton had to count numbers and record their findings in ledger books. The writing classes for Will would be a good first step the priest said. At the beginning, Malcolm disagreed, strongly believing the boy would be more help to his mother on the land. However, Margaret persisted and eventually Gramps allowed Will a few hours a week to attend classes, providing all his chores at home were completed beforehand.

In his early years, according to all accounts, my father had been a rather sensitive and shy child. He spent little time with other boys of his age, instead enjoying his own company playing in the nearby forest. Will's greatest pride and joy came from a slingshot that was made of animal skins. He practiced his shooting skills for hours on end in the forest and took the weapon everywhere he went. Over time, this trademark would come in very handy, particularly during spring time when it was necessary to scare away wild birds attempting to steal the growing vegetables at the back of the house.

At first, the young man found the writing classes difficult to master. He was conscious of his lowly status and found himself frequently competing against the sons of town merchants and traders. Often these lads had travelled with their fathers on business to other Scottish towns and cities and were more worldly than Will. They continually looked down on him and he felt isolated and disadvantaged for being just a farming boy. Will's baggy farm pants, rough wavy hair and my grandmother's home-sewn shirts set him aside from his more refined class mates. At times, the boy wished he could just leave, but decided to continue only out of fear of making his mother very angry and disappointed in him.

On those occasions when he wandered about the churchyard by himself during a break in classes, Will noticed a blacksmith shop opposite. The sign read GILMOUR: IRONMONGER & BLACKSMITH. Will loved the big brown and white horses that did so much of the back breaking work for farmers on the land. Often on his way back from the forest, he passed the majestic Clydesdales in the fields as they slowly ploughed the pastures for next years barley crop. The young lad often wondered how these horses could be so placid and content with their lives, when toiling so hard from sunrise to dusk.

Every now and then, when the horses were brought to the blacksmith shop for a new set of shoes, Will would inevitably sneak across the road and talk to each one of the horses as they waited patiently out the front. Alexander Gilmour, the owner of the business, noticed the young lad at various times and was impressed by his ability to calm a frisky animal with a single stroke of a horses nose. The blacksmith had been in the trade for twenty seven years and knew how difficult it was to find a handler that could work well with horses.

`To have a natural affinity with animals is a rare quality to possess in any human being;' he often said to the other workers.

Gilmour decided to test his curiosity out and waited for the right opportunity. This came sooner than expected. Another bout of influenza had swept through the village keeping a number of...