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In the year 1359, Scotland was buried under the weight of King David II’s ransom, and the royal tax collectors were working overtime to fleece every merchant from the Highlands to the Border. Bartholomew Woolace stood on the docks of Berwick, his boots planted as firmly as a ram on a cliffside, watching the "Great Custom" collectors count his high-quality bales. While other traders were practically bleating in despair at the triple-tax, Bartholomew remained completely unshaken. He knew the crown was desperate for silver, but he possessed far too much baa-ckbone to let some bureaucrat with a quill push him around. When an official tried to seize an extra sack for "clerical fees," Bartholomew didn’t just argue; he stepped forward with a rebellious glint in his eye that suggested he was more than ready for a ram-page if the man didn't back down.
Bartholomew was a man who believed that if you were going to spin a future for your country, you couldn't be afraid of a little friction. He loomed over the collector, his presence so imposing that the official’s hand began to shake over his ledger. "The King needs his ransom, but I’m not a mutton-head who’ll pay for your new velvet doublet as well," Bartholomew rumbled, his voice as steady as an ancient stone wall. He understood the ram-ifications of defying the King’s men, but he was a rebellious spirit who refused to be herded into poverty. Realizing that Bartholomew was a man who would much rather fight than be shorn of his dignity, the collector quickly moved on to a more timid target. Bartholomew stayed on the docks until the last bale was loaded, a sturdy and unshaken reminder that even in the darkest financial storms, a true Scottish ram never yields.
"He’ll shear the taxman before he yields a yard."
In the year 1359, Scotland was buried under the weight of King David II’s ransom, and the royal tax collectors were working overtime to fleece every merchant from the Highlands to the Border. Bartholomew Woolace stood on the docks of Berwick, his boots planted as firmly as a ram on a cliffside, watching the "Great Custom" collectors count his high-quality bales. While other traders were practically bleating in despair at the triple-tax, Bartholomew remained completely unshaken. He knew the crown was desperate for silver, but he possessed far too much baa-ckbone to let some bureaucrat with a quill push him around. When an official tried to seize an extra sack for "clerical fees," Bartholomew didn’t just argue; he stepped forward with a rebellious glint in his eye that suggested he was more than ready for a ram-page if the man didn't back down.
Bartholomew was a man who believed that if you were going to spin a future for your country, you couldn't be afraid of a little friction. He loomed over the collector, his presence so imposing that the official’s hand began to shake over his ledger. "The King needs his ransom, but I’m not a mutton-head who’ll pay for your new velvet doublet as well," Bartholomew rumbled, his voice as steady as an ancient stone wall. He understood the ram-ifications of defying the King’s men, but he was a rebellious spirit who refused to be herded into poverty. Realizing that Bartholomew was a man who would much rather fight than be shorn of his dignity, the collector quickly moved on to a more timid target. Bartholomew stayed on the docks until the last bale was loaded, a sturdy and unshaken reminder that even in the darkest financial storms, a true Scottish ram never yields.
"He’ll shear the taxman before he yields a yard."