Dougal stood on the rain-slicked docks of a forgotten inlet, watching his men heave heavy, grease-soaked sacks into the belly of a deep-sea cog. The air smelled of salt, pine tar, and the distinct, earthy musk of three hundred "liberated" fleeces.
"Dougal!" a voice shrilled through the fog. It was the Royal Coustumar, a man named Malice (and he lived up to it), flanked by four guards with halberds that looked entirely too sharp for a Tuesday.
"By the King’s Seal, Dougal Woolace! I see thirty sacks of prime Border White! That’s twenty merks in tax, or I’ll have you in the iron boots by sunrise!"
Dougal didn't even look up from his ledger. He just scratched his beard, which was so thick and wild it looked like he was wearing a small, angry terrier on his chin.
"Tax? Malice, you’re seein' shadows," Dougal rumbled, his voice like grinding millstones. "There’s no wool here."
"I can see the tufts sticking out of the twine, man! It’s bleating in the wind!"
"That?" Dougal gestured vaguely at a sack. "That’s Highland Cloud-Stuffing. I’m exportin' it to Danzig. The Poles have had a very flat sky lately; they need the volume. It’s a matter of international meteorological charity."
Malice stomped forward, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the King's banners. "It’s wool! And it’s going to Campvere to be taxed at the Staple!"
"Campvere?" Dougal spat into the sea. "I’ll take my chances with the Baltic pirates before I let a Dutch taxman put his greasy fingers on my profit. This boat is headed for the Vistula, Malice. If the King wants his cut, tell him to start paddlin' toward Poland. I hear the water is lovely this time of year—if you don't mind the ice."
As the guards moved in, Dougal whistled. From the shadows of the warehouse, twenty Borderers—each built like a stone cottage and twice as surly—stepped out, holding heavy shepherd’s crooks that could double as war clubs.
"Now," Dougal said, stepping into the Coustumar’s personal space, "you can stay here and count the waves, or you can go back to Edinburgh and tell the King that Dougal the Ram has decided that the Ransom Tax is... voluntary. And I’ve volunteered to ignore it."
The boat began to pull away, the sails catching a northern gale. Dougal hopped onto the moving gunwale, laughing as the Coustumar’s lantern faded into the mist.
"To Danzig!" Dougal shouted over the roar of the North Sea. "Where the merchants pay in gold and the only thing they tax is a man’s ability to hold his ale!"
Dougal stood on the rain-slicked docks of a forgotten inlet, watching his men heave heavy, grease-soaked sacks into the belly of a deep-sea cog. The air smelled of salt, pine tar, and the distinct, earthy musk of three hundred "liberated" fleeces.
"Dougal!" a voice shrilled through the fog. It was the Royal Coustumar, a man named Malice (and he lived up to it), flanked by four guards with halberds that looked entirely too sharp for a Tuesday.
"By the King’s Seal, Dougal Woolace! I see thirty sacks of prime Border White! That’s twenty merks in tax, or I’ll have you in the iron boots by sunrise!"
Dougal didn't even look up from his ledger. He just scratched his beard, which was so thick and wild it looked like he was wearing a small, angry terrier on his chin.
"Tax? Malice, you’re seein' shadows," Dougal rumbled, his voice like grinding millstones. "There’s no wool here."
"I can see the tufts sticking out of the twine, man! It’s bleating in the wind!"
"That?" Dougal gestured vaguely at a sack. "That’s Highland Cloud-Stuffing. I’m exportin' it to Danzig. The Poles have had a very flat sky lately; they need the volume. It’s a matter of international meteorological charity."
Malice stomped forward, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the King's banners. "It’s wool! And it’s going to Campvere to be taxed at the Staple!"
"Campvere?" Dougal spat into the sea. "I’ll take my chances with the Baltic pirates before I let a Dutch taxman put his greasy fingers on my profit. This boat is headed for the Vistula, Malice. If the King wants his cut, tell him to start paddlin' toward Poland. I hear the water is lovely this time of year—if you don't mind the ice."
As the guards moved in, Dougal whistled. From the shadows of the warehouse, twenty Borderers—each built like a stone cottage and twice as surly—stepped out, holding heavy shepherd’s crooks that could double as war clubs.
"Now," Dougal said, stepping into the Coustumar’s personal space, "you can stay here and count the waves, or you can go back to Edinburgh and tell the King that Dougal the Ram has decided that the Ransom Tax is... voluntary. And I’ve volunteered to ignore it."
The boat began to pull away, the sails catching a northern gale. Dougal hopped onto the moving gunwale, laughing as the Coustumar’s lantern faded into the mist.
"To Danzig!" Dougal shouted over the roar of the North Sea. "Where the merchants pay in gold and the only thing they tax is a man’s ability to hold his ale!"
"A king asks for the fleece; a Ram gives him the horns."
— Dougal Woolace, mid-voyage to the Baltic
