You may play me bagpipes, and call me, "Your Highnessness."

Perhaps it was inspired by the recent Scottish vote for independence, perhaps not. I don't really know what brought it on, but something inspired my mother to compile my family's Scottish lineage, up through the royal Stuart clan.

Yay, Stuarts!

Let me tell you a little bit about my Scottish connections.

I've known for years that I had Scottish blood in me - Stuart clan at that - but there was never much to do with it. I liked the movie, "Brave." My little brother plays the bagpipes. I have a soft spot in my heart for Celtic music, and a desperate love for their knots and other art motifs.

That was about the extent of it.

Then I married an Armstrong.

Not just any Armstrong, of course. I married one with a strong "clan" mentality to their family. They love their Scottish heritage, and proudly display their coat of arms, while wearing their blue and green tartan on their ties.

See, there's this thing about the Armstrongs, though. Way back in the whenever ago, they rebelled against the ruling clan of their day. Which was - you guessed it - the Stuart clan. (Or Stewart... multiple spellings there, but it's the same family, and I think it looks better with a "u.")

Back in 1530 there was this little incident where King James V may or may not have promised safe passage to this guy named John Armstrong (aka, Gilnockie Johnnie), and then captured and hanged him. But see, Johnnie was a border reiver, which meant he plundered and raided and stuff. That was a thing back then. There were tensions between England and Scotland, so a bunch of English and Scottish people would raid the England/Scotland border. The thing is, they didn't really care if you were English or Scottish. If you lived in the borderlands, you either raided, or got raided.

And the Armstrongs were a very powerful clan that lived near the border.

Now, Gilnockie Johnnie was one of the most notorious border reivers of his day. According to the all-wise, all-knowing Wikipedia, he led a band of 160 guys around, burning stuff down. Like Netherby. He did that one. And then some dude named William Dacre burned the village of Canonbie, where he was living.

So, around 15 years after James V came to power, he decided he'd about had enough of these stinking Armstrongs. He got in touch with Johnnie and told him, "Oh, yeah. You can totally walk through this area where my guys are definitely not waiting to capture you. Not a problem! Totally safe passage!"

And Johnnie did it.

And got captured.

And got hanged, along with 36 of his reiver guys.

Now, I'm not sure how this was supposed to solve the king's problems with the Armstrong clan in general, since it just pissed them off, but it stopped the Johnnie problem.

Then James went to battle against the English in the Armstrongs' home turf. It was 1542, the Battle of Solway Moss, which took place in a bunch of bogs and eerie stuff like that. The Armstrongs loved all this creepy bog stuff, but the king's army kinda fell in and a few of them drowned.

Being subjects of the Scottish crown, the Armstrongs were called in to help the king win his battle. And they totally could have kicked English butt, knowing the bogs so well as they did. But, well, they were still a bit sore over the whole Gilnockie Johnnie incident of 12 years prior, and they just sort of shrugged and said, "Nah. We'll just stay here and soak in the bog. Have fun with your English buddies."

And the Scottish lost. Dismally.

So, the Armstrongs and the Stuarts. Not really friends.

Tonight, my mom sent me my Stuart lineage. I'd always wondered how it connected into the royal line, and now I know. We go up through Charles II of England, son of James I of England, who was also James VI of Scotland. (You can thank Elizabeth I for naming the Scottish heir as her heir as well, finally uniting England and Scotland, and ending their wars... sort of...) This leads us to James' mother, Mary, Queen of Scots. (No, that is not bloody Mary, for those people back in my freshman year who tried to convince me I was descended from a blood-soaked, homicidal maniac slaughtering innocent civilians in the name of the Catholic Church. That was Mary I of England, daughter of Henry VIII. And for the record, Bloody Mary never had any kids for me to be descended from anyway, though she did have a raging case of stomach cancer that she thought was a pregnancy.)

Mary, Queen of Scots, was the daughter of James V, of Gilnockie Johnnie fame. So it was definitely my direct ancestor who broke his oath to a notorious raider and got his butt whooped by the English in retaliation.

After getting the entire line traced from myself, up through each generation, to Mary (my mom stopped there, but a quick Wikipedia search told me my family's history with the Armstrong clan), I spent dinner time referring to my Armstrong husband as "traitor," and requesting such things as bowing before me, and referring to me as "Your Majesty."

Cause, I mean, I am royal blood here.

He refused to acknowledge my royal authority. Those dang Armstrongs just haven't gotten over the whole Gilnockie Johnnie thing. I mean, come on. It was five hundred years ago. Let it go, already. And then worship me.

But then, while I may be royal, the Armstrongs do have the cooler tartan.

And I'll have to live with that.