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the Jordie Woolace 1424 (coming soon)
The Legend of Jordie Woolace: The Bootlegger of the Marches
Jordie stood on a small, windswept hillock exactly three inches north of the English border. Beside him sat his dog, "Freedom," and behind him stood three hundred of the fattest, fluffiest sheep in the Marches.
From the north, a cloud of dust appeared. It was the Sheriff of Roxburgh, armed with a ledger the size of a tombstone and a face like a slapped fish.
"Jordie Woolace!" the Sheriff bellowed, pulling his horse to a halt. "By order of His Majesty, I am here to weigh your wool and claim the King’s third!"
Jordie took a slow bite of a turnip. He looked at the Sheriff, then at the line of stones marking the border, then back at the Sheriff.
"Wool?" Jordie asked innocently. "I dinna hae any wool, Sheriff."
"I am looking at it, man! A sea of white! And why do they look so unnaturally wide? Tally them up, boys!"
Just as the deputies dismounted, Jordie let out a sharp, piercing whistle. With the practiced precision of a veteran drill sergeant, the sheep turned as one and trotted twenty yards to the south. They were now in England.
"Stop!" Jordie cried, holding up a hand. "You're out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff. Unless you’ve got a permit from the English Warden of the Marches, you’re currently attempting to tax the livestock of King Henry VI. And that sounds like an act of war to me."
The Sheriff turned purple. But he was patient. He ordered his men to set up camp right on the border line. He figured Jordie had to bring the flock back eventually.
What the Sheriff didn't know was that these weren't just international travelers on a grazing retreat. Underneath that thick, never-registered Woolace wool, strapped snugly to the ribs of every single ram, were small oak casks of contraband moonshine. Jordie wasn't just dodging the wool tax—his flock was the distribution network for his secret basement distillery.
As night fell, the border winds grew biting and freezing. The Sheriff's men sat shivering in their tents. Seeing his opening, Jordie walked across the line carrying a single earthenware jug, with Freedom trotting at his heels.
"Cold night to be chasing ghosts, Sheriff," Jordie said, completely unbothered by the cold. "No hard feelings. Have a drop of the local recipe to keep the frost out of your bones."
Desperate for warmth, the Sheriff took the jug. It was Jordie's masterwork: The Ram’s Kick.
One sip made the Sheriff's eyes water, and his deputies' toes instantly warmed up. Two sips, and the deputies forgot about the freezing wind and started loudly humming a rowdy tavern tune. By the third sip, the liquor had taken total hold.
Laughing like madmen, the Sheriff and his deputies began tearing pages out of the King's massive, tombstone-sized tax ledger, tossing them into the campfire to keep the flames roaring. By midnight, the Sheriff was wearing his boots on his hands, completely blind to where the border even was.
While the law slept off the lightning, Jordie gave a low whistle, and the sheep trotted back into Scotland to sleep on the better grass.
The next morning, the English patrol rode up from the south. The Sheriff woke up with a pounding headache, surrounded by the ashes of his burnt ledger. Jordie just stood on the border line, one foot in Scotland and one in England, grinning like a man who had just invented tax evasion.
As the Sheriff scrambled back across the border to avoid the English guards, nearly losing his wig in the process, Jordie shouted over the wind:
"Tell the King that if he wants my wool or my whiskey, he’ll need to learn how to shear a ghost! Because as far as the law is concerned, my sheep are currently residents of nowhere!"
The Legend of Jordie Woolace: The Bootlegger of the Marches
Jordie stood on a small, windswept hillock exactly three inches north of the English border. Beside him sat his dog, "Freedom," and behind him stood three hundred of the fattest, fluffiest sheep in the Marches.
From the north, a cloud of dust appeared. It was the Sheriff of Roxburgh, armed with a ledger the size of a tombstone and a face like a slapped fish.
"Jordie Woolace!" the Sheriff bellowed, pulling his horse to a halt. "By order of His Majesty, I am here to weigh your wool and claim the King’s third!"
Jordie took a slow bite of a turnip. He looked at the Sheriff, then at the line of stones marking the border, then back at the Sheriff.
"Wool?" Jordie asked innocently. "I dinna hae any wool, Sheriff."
"I am looking at it, man! A sea of white! And why do they look so unnaturally wide? Tally them up, boys!"
Just as the deputies dismounted, Jordie let out a sharp, piercing whistle. With the practiced precision of a veteran drill sergeant, the sheep turned as one and trotted twenty yards to the south. They were now in England.
"Stop!" Jordie cried, holding up a hand. "You're out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff. Unless you’ve got a permit from the English Warden of the Marches, you’re currently attempting to tax the livestock of King Henry VI. And that sounds like an act of war to me."
The Sheriff turned purple. But he was patient. He ordered his men to set up camp right on the border line. He figured Jordie had to bring the flock back eventually.
What the Sheriff didn't know was that these weren't just international travelers on a grazing retreat. Underneath that thick, never-registered Woolace wool, strapped snugly to the ribs of every single ram, were small oak casks of contraband moonshine. Jordie wasn't just dodging the wool tax—his flock was the distribution network for his secret basement distillery.
As night fell, the border winds grew biting and freezing. The Sheriff's men sat shivering in their tents. Seeing his opening, Jordie walked across the line carrying a single earthenware jug, with Freedom trotting at his heels.
"Cold night to be chasing ghosts, Sheriff," Jordie said, completely unbothered by the cold. "No hard feelings. Have a drop of the local recipe to keep the frost out of your bones."
Desperate for warmth, the Sheriff took the jug. It was Jordie's masterwork: The Ram’s Kick.
One sip made the Sheriff's eyes water, and his deputies' toes instantly warmed up. Two sips, and the deputies forgot about the freezing wind and started loudly humming a rowdy tavern tune. By the third sip, the liquor had taken total hold.
Laughing like madmen, the Sheriff and his deputies began tearing pages out of the King's massive, tombstone-sized tax ledger, tossing them into the campfire to keep the flames roaring. By midnight, the Sheriff was wearing his boots on his hands, completely blind to where the border even was.
While the law slept off the lightning, Jordie gave a low whistle, and the sheep trotted back into Scotland to sleep on the better grass.
The next morning, the English patrol rode up from the south. The Sheriff woke up with a pounding headache, surrounded by the ashes of his burnt ledger. Jordie just stood on the border line, one foot in Scotland and one in England, grinning like a man who had just invented tax evasion.
As the Sheriff scrambled back across the border to avoid the English guards, nearly losing his wig in the process, Jordie shouted over the wind:
"Tell the King that if he wants my wool or my whiskey, he’ll need to learn how to shear a ghost! Because as far as the law is concerned, my sheep are currently residents of nowhere!"