Page 1 of Highlander’s Sloth

Prologue

16th Century Scotland

The monasteries of Scotland were in disarray. King Henry the Eighth might have been Good King Hal to the Sassenachs, but his determination to snuff out the Catholic church, and every institution that went with it, had sounded the death knell for Friar Bernard’s community.

“What shall we do, Brither?” Friar Norton asked, wringing his hands in supplication, “Where shall we go?”

Even though no one was recognized as the official head of the monastic order that was nestled amidst the stark Highland hills, Friar Bernard had nevertheless soon become acknowledged as their leader after the eldest friar had passed away more than seven years ago. Friar Bernard envied his predecessor; he would never have to live through the terror of waiting for the Reformation’s hammer to strike.

“Gather every man into the great hall, Brither,” Friar Bernard replied calmly. “We must make an inventory of what little we have. I’ll nae see a single bawbee this monastery possesses slip into that heretic’s hands! As if he didn’t have enough riches spilling out of the Royal Mint already! It must be as full to overflowing as the man’s stomach!”

“Och, hush, Brither!” Friar Norton looked over his shoulder with fear, as though King Henry’s soldiers might be able to overhear what was being said. “I’ll do as ye ask, but keep yer ire well hidden. Ye never ken who’s listening.”

Friar Bernard trusted his brethren with his life, but the monastery kept its doors open to any chance passersby needing succor, and there was no guarantee of loyalty from the occasional wanderer who came to stay the night.

With the winter closing in all around them and the looming Cairngorm mountains already covered in snow, the brothers did not expect any more travelers that year; it was too cold, too dangerously inclement outside.

But they were wrong.

It was well past midnight in the wee hours of a freezing December morning when the monastery’s last visitor arrived at its gate.

Lachlan Macanroy was almost spent when he spied the warm light in the valley below, and he had never been so glad as to see signs of domesticity in his life. It had been dawn when he set out, and his rump was saddle sore and cold. Lachlan was the eldest son of a proud Highland laird, but his father had grown weary of his indolent and self-indulgent lifestyle.

“Ye’ll leave these halls and tarry here nay more ‘til ye’ve learnt how to conduct yerself as befits the Macanroy, ye wastrel!” Lachlan’s father had bellowed at him yesterday morning. It was the fault of his friends, or at least that’s what Lachlan Macanroy had been telling himself for the last twenty miles. The young men’s favorite pastime was to sit in the great hall during the colder months and make salacious comments at the passing maids. In summer, they would contain their pleasure-seeking to the courtyards and gardens. For the past five years, not a single summer’s day had gone by without the hardworking maids of Macanroy lodge being pestered or teased by the lazy group of youths who clustered around Lachlan like satellites. The only respite came when the young men retired to the great hall for dinner.

This lifestyle had caused Lachlan to become flabby in the belly and possess lily-white hands softer than a woman’s. His father had enough of his heir’s refusal to leave the lodge and seek to better himself and the clan’s prospects.

“Be gone! Away with ye!” Laird Macanroy had bellowed. “An’ don’ come back here unless it is with gold or news of yer good deeds!”

After the shock of his expulsion had worn off, Lachlan was left with a sense of ill-use and sulking resentment.

How dare his father cast him out as though he, Lachlan, was not a very important man!? Let the little people train themselves for war or hard labor. When his father died, Lachlan planned to sell off as much land as he could so he wouldn’t be bothered with having to collect rents every year.

When the sun had gone down, and the chill winter winds began to howl around his kneecaps, Lachlan had dismounted and put on every item of clothing he had brought with him in his saddlebags. And so, when he trotted his pony down the hill toward the light, he presented a very strange appearance to the friar who answered his knocking on the portcullis door.

Lighted by the flickering torch burning in the gate sconce, the friar thought the traveler misshapen and hideous when he came to beg for shelter, but once inside the gate and able to remove the great plaid and blankets from around his shoulders and the two bonnets off his head, Lachlan presented a more normal facade.

“Brrr!” Lachlan rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet on the echoing courtyard flagstones. “’Tis as cold as a witch’s teat out there! D’ye by chance have posset or food? A bowl of hot soup will go down a treat.”

“The kitchen is closed for the night, sir, and the fires dampened down. But ye’ll find a fire burning in the grate in the dormitory.”

“Dormitory? Ha! Show me to a private room if ye would be so good, and hurry! I’m tired and need me sleep.”

The friar looked at the new guest with a puzzled expression. He had been a member of the Order since he was a wee lad, and had never encountered anyone so solipsistic as this man before.

“We only have dormitories at the monastery, Brither,” he said, as though explaining it to a spoilt child. “One for the brithers and one for guests. But ye are the only visitor, so ye’ll be alone.”

“Very well, it’ll have to do,” Lachlan sighed and followed the friar to a long bedchamber filled with narrow wooden beds and pallets. He was still shivering badly.

“Here, sir.” The young friar offered Lachlan his hip flask. “This’ll warm the cockles of yer heart. It’s the monastery’s own whisky. We make it in the distillery down in the cellars. We’ve been able to feed many villagers with the proceeds of its sale.”

Lachlan took the hip flask and greedily tilted the contents down his throat.

For one glorious moment, Lachlan believed himself transported to the faraway lands of which he had heard mariners speak. His body seemed to fill with sweet warmth, and his breath became hot and excited. The golden liquid’s taste had touches of honey mead, traces of rich, roasted barley, and a dash of toasted malt. It was divine. His mood elevated enough for Lachlan to be able to bid the friar a very good night.

The next morning, Lachlan rose at noon and slouched into the dining hall, demanding breakfast from a friar who happened to be scurrying past.

The man looked bemused. “We break our fast six hours after the stroke of the midnight bell, Brother...and ye’ve missed dinner too. ‘Tis after noon, ye ken.”