Page 3 of Highlander’s Sloth

1

An Easy Life

Callum Macanroy rolled over in bed. It was noon, that time of the day when he was faced with two choices: to get up and dress or to stay in bed and order some dinner brought up to him.

He decided he was peckish and reached over to the bell rope to give it a hard tug. When his valet arrived, he ordered the man to bring him a demitasse of hot milk with a large spoon of honey stirred through it.

“And don’ forget to tell the cook to sprinkle it with cinnamon this time!” Callum shouted after the valet’s retreating back.

There’s nothing better than waking up in Paris in the morning. There’s never a shortage of delicious food, beautiful women, and tradesmen ready to sell me their finest wares.

Life was indeed good for Callum Macanroy. He was not yet turned thirty and handsome enough to swivel the heads of every available Parisian woman he met. The fashions of the day would make a lesser man appear foolish in the extreme, but the shrunken doublets, long straight-cut coats, and knee breeches tied with ribbons looked elegantly louche on Callum’s lean-hipped tall figure. And while he refused his valet and dresser’s pleas for him to wear brighter colors, Callum made a small concession to their protestations by allowing them to drape him in the finest gold-embroidered brocades, just so long as the clothes they put on him were black—always black. The only concession he made to this dictum was the fine white cambric shirts he wore.

“I’ll nae prance around like a zany popinjay, Brock,” Callum growled whenever his valet brought out a swath of red satin knee breeches or blue velvet coat and begged him to consider wearing it.

And indeed, even though he did not give a tinker’s groat for the fashions of the day and whether they suited him or not, Callum did appear to his best advantage in the somber hue. The color brought out the piercing quality of his turquoise-blue eyes and threw his uncropped, wavy brown hair into stark contrast. But it was the way Callum Macanroy grasped his cane or dress sword with his large, strong hands and walked with an indefinable swagger that set him apart from the Frenchmen with whom he associated.

“That Callum, eh? He is an original, and the ladies sigh many times when he strolls past,” his friends would say because where there was wealth, there were always friends.

That’s what Callum did. He strolled, slouched, and meandered aimlessly through life. And why not? Since he was old enough to remember, he had only had to lift his finger and whatever he wanted or needed was brought to him immediately. When other lairds’ sons had to buckle under, attending lessons, learning the art of warfare, and being schooled in sword fighting skills, all Callum had had to do was watch them at the annual Highland games.

“Dinnae fash yer wee mind over seeking to be taught such mundane things,” his father, Laird Lachlan Macanroy, had said to him. “We Macanroys can pay people to do those things for us. When I need soldiers, I’ll pay mercenaries.”

And it was true. For nearly one hundred years, Macanroy Lodge had made the finest whisky in all of Scotland. No one knew the secret to the delicious golden spell it cast over those who drank it, but it was sought by lairds and princes from near and far. The lodge could not produce enough of it. Many was the time messengers had arrived at the gates, desirous of purchasing more of the honeyed liquor, but every time, they were turned away. The secret receipt was kept in seven locked boxes and took an age to make and brew. Because of its rarity and taste, lairds from all over the Highlands were prepared to pay for a bottle’s weight in gold. The sovereigns poured into the Macanroy coffers like sand on the beach. No feast or celebration was complete without a bottle of Macanroy whisky to broach.

But as the young Callum had watched the men rush at each other with broad swords raised, shouting to intimidate the other man and crashing their weapons together with a reverberating clash, Callum thought it had looked like fun.

“If it’s all the same to ye, Faither,” he had said, “I would like to learn that. Order the blacksmith to make me a shield and the best sword in all of Scotland.”

Laird Lachlan had yawned. “Och, ye order it done yerself, lad. I’m off to have a nap.”

Since before anyone could remember, every successive Macanroy laird had suffered from indolence. It all stemmed back to Callum’s great-grandfather, who had been welcomed back into the lodge with open arms when it was found he had the receipt for a whisky so powerful and delicious that it spoiled a man’s taste for any other. After bringing his clan wealth and renown beyond measure, he had died from overindulging in his own product and lack of physical exertion. The apothecary had urged the next laird to practice moderation in all things. Callum’s grandfather had taken this advice to heart and lain in his bed for large parts of the day thereafter, figuring himself to be an invalid and in danger of the slightest chill carrying him off.

A normal day’s activities would include a long breakfast preceding a gentle stroll around the lodge gardens, and then it was generally felt that a pre-dinner snooze was in order. Following dinner, a leisurely inspection of the distilleries would be conducted, and then the laird would return to the bedchamber to recoup his strength for supper.

It was a routine to which Callum’s father had rigorously adhered.

There was a restlessness in Callum, which his father had found most off-putting.

“Will ye settle down and be still, boy!” Laird Lachlan was heard to moan those words many times a day.

But Callum was not one to listen to his father or maintain the relaxed routine of Macanroy Lodge.

“Let’s go hunting, Faither! Let’s go swimming in the loch! Cannae we be off to the woods to look for birds’ eggs?”

Every time, Laird Lachlan’s reply would be the same. “Naaaaay, go on with ye, Callum. We dinnae need to do such things. We can pay folks to do it for us.”

Even though the whisky trade had brought Callum’s great-grandfather much wealth, the man had still sold off the tracts of land surrounding the lodge so that he could devote himself to more pleasurable pursuits than collecting rents. Now, the lodge stood alone amidst the bleak Highland moors, with not a single field under cultivation or craft practiced within its walls. Whatever the occupants needed, they would buy.

Laird Lachlan put up with Callum’s restless spirit until the lad turned eight and ten. Then he called him into the great hall.

“Ye’re to sail to France on the evening tide, me boy,” Laird Lachlan had announced. “Ye can draw on me bank in Paris for funds, but I want ye gone from here for a good while.”

The youth was used to his father indulging his every whim, so this news took him by surprise.

“Why, Faither? What have I done to deserve this?”

The laird sighed. “Naught, lad, naught. Be still. Ye are to go get a bit o’ town bronze. Learn to be a gentleman, a man o’ leisure. I cannae find tutors to teach ye these things, so ye must go and learn them yerself.”