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Alister Woolace stood at the base of the Cheviot Hills, right where the ancestral border line used to be. For centuries, his lineage had bled on this line, but now, the "pigs" in the royal court claimed the line had vanished. King James VI had ridden south to London to put on a second crown, and his auditors had followed him like a trail of hungry lice, eager to tax the new "harmony" of the two nations.
"By order of the King of Great Britain!" squealed an official, unrolling a scroll so long it tripped over a thistle. "The Border is now the 'Middle Shires.' And as such, your shipment of Border White wool is subject to the new 'Unified Excise'—payable to both the Scottish and English exchequers!"
Alister didn't even look up. He was too busy taking a slow, deliberate bite out of a raw turnip, the crunch echoing in the silent glen. He looked at the man, who was wearing a ruff so large he looked like a panicked pigeon in a lace cage.
"Unified, you say?" Alister’s voice was a low rumble, like a rockslide in the Highlands. "So, if the nations are one, there’s no border. If there’s no border, I haven't crossed it. And if I haven't crossed it, there’s no duty to be paid. You can't tax a man for standing in the center of his own world."
"It’s a Union Tax!" the official barked, his face turning a shade of purple that almost matched his ink. "To celebrate the joining of the crowns!"
"Ah, the Crowns," Alister said, stepping into the official’s personal space. He loomed like a granite crag, his massive battle-axe strapped to his side glinting in the mist. He took another crunch of his turnip. "Tell me, if the King has two crowns but only one head, which crown is the tax for? If I pay the Scottish side, am I snubbing the English King? If I pay the English, am I a traitor to the Scot? I wouldn't want to cause a diplomatic crisis by paying the wrong 'half' of a man."
The official sputtered, his ink-pot rattling. "It... it goes into the King’s Unified Purse!"
"There is no such thing," Alister countered, his eyes cold and unshaken. "There is a Scottish purse and an English one. Until your King can grow a second head to wear both hats at once, I’ll keep my wool for the makers who actually know how to knit. In the 'Middle Shires,' we don't follow laws that haven't decided where they live yet."
As the official scrambled for a pen to write a "Notice of Insurrection," Alister simply whistled. His men, built like stone cottages, moved the wool through a hidden valley path. By the time the official looked up, the Woolace shipment had vanished. Alister stood alone, tossed the rest of his turnip at the official's feet, and faded into the fog.
"The Union is a rigmarole; the wool is the truth. A king can wear two hats, but a ram only needs one mountain."
Alister Woolace stood at the base of the Cheviot Hills, right where the ancestral border line used to be. For centuries, his lineage had bled on this line, but now, the "pigs" in the royal court claimed the line had vanished. King James VI had ridden south to London to put on a second crown, and his auditors had followed him like a trail of hungry lice, eager to tax the new "harmony" of the two nations.
"By order of the King of Great Britain!" squealed an official, unrolling a scroll so long it tripped over a thistle. "The Border is now the 'Middle Shires.' And as such, your shipment of Border White wool is subject to the new 'Unified Excise'—payable to both the Scottish and English exchequers!"
Alister didn't even look up. He was too busy taking a slow, deliberate bite out of a raw turnip, the crunch echoing in the silent glen. He looked at the man, who was wearing a ruff so large he looked like a panicked pigeon in a lace cage.
"Unified, you say?" Alister’s voice was a low rumble, like a rockslide in the Highlands. "So, if the nations are one, there’s no border. If there’s no border, I haven't crossed it. And if I haven't crossed it, there’s no duty to be paid. You can't tax a man for standing in the center of his own world."
"It’s a Union Tax!" the official barked, his face turning a shade of purple that almost matched his ink. "To celebrate the joining of the crowns!"
"Ah, the Crowns," Alister said, stepping into the official’s personal space. He loomed like a granite crag, his massive battle-axe strapped to his side glinting in the mist. He took another crunch of his turnip. "Tell me, if the King has two crowns but only one head, which crown is the tax for? If I pay the Scottish side, am I snubbing the English King? If I pay the English, am I a traitor to the Scot? I wouldn't want to cause a diplomatic crisis by paying the wrong 'half' of a man."
The official sputtered, his ink-pot rattling. "It... it goes into the King’s Unified Purse!"
"There is no such thing," Alister countered, his eyes cold and unshaken. "There is a Scottish purse and an English one. Until your King can grow a second head to wear both hats at once, I’ll keep my wool for the makers who actually know how to knit. In the 'Middle Shires,' we don't follow laws that haven't decided where they live yet."
As the official scrambled for a pen to write a "Notice of Insurrection," Alister simply whistled. His men, built like stone cottages, moved the wool through a hidden valley path. By the time the official looked up, the Woolace shipment had vanished. Alister stood alone, tossed the rest of his turnip at the official's feet, and faded into the fog.
"The Union is a rigmarole; the wool is the truth. A king can wear two hats, but a ram only needs one mountain."