Saint George and his man, Jack, were on a mission in Scotland to return King Duncan’s sporran. They had been lucky to get this far, but inevitably they ran into a raiding party intent on the pillage of a village in the next valley. The prospect of reward from King Duncan for the capture of two English spies persuaded them to change their objective. One burly fellow in a faded tartan kilt shouted with glee as he grabbed George’s money pouch, then threw the coins down in disgust when he caught sight of King Freddie’s image. ‘Try to pick them up when nobody is looking,’ said George to Jack, but he had gathered only a few when they were roughly ordered to move on by the leader of the group.
‘Can I ask where you are taking us,’ said George politely. ‘Ye’re gaun to th’ king,’ was the rough reply. ‘Oh good,’ said George, ‘I’ll be able to give him back his sporran.’
‘Wad tha be th’ sporran he tint in th’ battle at Hadrian’s dyke?’
‘I found it on the ground behind a large boulder.’
‘Cut aff by th’ swipe ay a Sassenach broadsword.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said George, ‘look, the strap is intact.’
‘Tha chewed an burnt rag is nae sporran of Duncan’s’
‘Then I’m authorised by King Freddie to buy him a new one,’ said George, hoping that Jack had succeeded in retrieving enough of the golden sovereigns that had been scattered amongst the heather.
For George and Jack the long trek continued, but now they had a bodyguard. So far, nobody had looked into the packs on the donkey and George hoped that this oversight would persist. He knew that the knowledge that they were conveying a large quantity of a banned substance would further complicate their situation. He felt that without this complication, and with the help of the sporran and the gold coins, he could bluff his way out of danger. It was true that the gold coins in their present form were of doubtful value, but he reasoned that the Scots, like the Welsh, should be capable of melting and reminting them in a form more pleasing to their aesthetic susceptibilities.
It was a long and arduous march but the English pair were not harshly treated. The clansmen wanted to deliver the spies to King Duncan in good condition. So they were served with salty porridge every morning and dined on boiled turnips every night. Jack, having been denied the pleasures of poitin in Ireland, now learned the delights of the products of the Scottish distilleries. He quickly earned the respect of the clansmen by matching them dram for dram. ‘Mebbe th’ Sassenachs arenae sae bad efter aw,’ one wobbly clansman was heard to remark as he was carried away by two companions. ‘A’ll hae nae mair ay, tha fraternising,’ declared the leader, and after that Jack was condemned to drinking alone.
