Page 22 of Highlander’s Devious Ally

Findlay would never forget the day his life changed forever. It was a day in October when the harvest was being gathered and the rye and barley fields shone golden even on the most sullen of days. Great draught horses pulled loads of sheaves of oats and towering piles of hay on carts, and the tangy aroma of wood smoke scented the air as farmers burned dead wood. It was a magical month.

They lived in the town of Inchcolm, which was on the northern shore of Loch Ness at its widest point, just before it became the North Sea. It was a comfortable little town, well known for its fishing fleet, one of the biggest and most productive in the area; indeed, it had a huge harbor for such a small town.

There was one thing that the McBlain farm could not produce, and that was fish, and since the two brothers particularly relished herring fried in oatmeal on a Friday night, they went into town at least once a week to stock up on supplies, usually taking the opportunity to go into the local tavern, the Black Bull, for a hearty jug of ale which the landlord, Gregor Mullan called “The Best in the West.” They lived on the east coast of Scotland but nobody worried too much about the name as long as the beer was good, which it was.

The bar was crowded because it was a Thursday and the hard drinkers wanted to fill up their bellies before Friday, the day of fast. The McBlain brothers were regular, but moderate drinkers, and two of Gregor’s favorites because they were sociable and gave him very little trouble.

“Two Bests, please, Greg,” Ranald said, leaning on the counter and looking at the pretty new barmaid Sorcha, a plump pretty redhead with a cheeky air about her.

“Just my kind of woman,” Ranald said as he quaffed his beer with satisfaction. “A treat for the eyes!”

“Ranald!” One of the regulars, a man called Jamie who had the bulbous blue nose and rheumy eyes of the heavy drinker, called for his attention. “Every wummin is your kind o’ wummin!”

Ranald raised his glass. “To women!” he cried, “God’s most magnificent creation!”

There was a general chorus of cheers and Ranald was slapped on the back so hard that he nearly fell over.

Just then, a well-dressed man came in escorted by two armed guards. This was such a rare sight that most of the patrons stood back to let him through without any argument. This too was unusual. The man himself was unremarkable, of medium height, medium build, regular features, and light brown hair. He was pleasant enough, but had a self-important air that Ranald immediately disliked. His guards stood on either side of him glaring malevolently at all the patrons in the pub, their hands on the daggers that were prominently hanging from their belts.

“I am Laird McCauley of Inverlieth,” the man said in an upper-class accent. “May I ask to whom the gray mare outside belongs?”

“She belongs to me, M'Laird,” Ranald said, stepping forward and giving the man a polite little bow. The Laird bowed back and Ranald thought he saw a fleeting look of surprise on his face.

“She is a beauty,” the Laird said enviously. “Would you consider selling her to me?”

“Thank you, M'Laird, but she is not for sale,” Ranald said firmly. “However, I can give you the name of the dealer where I bought her.”

“I can offer you a very good price,” the Laird wheedled.

Ranald looked at the rapt faces around them. This was the most interesting thing that had happened in ages.

“I prefer not to discuss private matters in public,” Ranald said angrily.

“Of course,” the Laird said. “Pardon me.” He stood aside to let Ranald out and they stood in the street looking at the horse.

“The dealer is David McCue,” Ranald said, pointing to a cluster of buildings on the corner inside which several horses’ heads were visible over the doors of their stalls. “He mainly deals in draught horses but he sometimes gets beautiful specimens like Sheba here. I don’t know what breed she is, or if she is a pure breed of any kind but she has a good, sweet character.” He ran his hand down the horse’s neck and she whickered and blew on his hair in a gesture of affection.

“I do not want another horse.” There was a definite edge of hostility to the Laird’s voice now. “I want this one. Every man has his price. Tell me what yours is and I will double it.”

Ranald looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps you did not hear me, M'Laird. You may offer me the moon and I will still not part with her. She is not for sale.”

“Name your price then,” the Laird said, sighing.

Ranald was becoming really angry now. He tried a different approach. “Thank you for the honor you have done me, M'Laird, but the horse is not for sale, nor will it ever be.”

The Laird bowed and gave him a somewhat hostile glance. “If you should change your mind, my castle is in Inverleith, ten miles down the road. Ask anyone in the town and they will find me.” He was going to turn away, but then swung back. “I expect to hear from you soon, Mister—?”

“McBlain,” Ranald replied sullenly. Echoed.

“I see you are one of those men who enjoy the thrill of the chase,” the Laird observed, “and like to drive a hard bargain. I expect to hear from you soon.”

Ranald was about to repeat the fact that the horse was not for sale, but decided that he was wasting his breath. He went back inside where Findlay was waiting and they finished their drinks. Ranald was in a thoroughly sour mood by this time and was quiet for the first mile of the journey home, which they were doing at a slow amble.

At last Ranald sighed, stretched, and smiled at his brother. “I am not letting that idiot rile me!” he said determinedly. “He can play the big man while he has two armed men with him, but let him face me himself and it will be a different story!”

“Yes, you are right, Ranald,” Findlay agreed, laughing. “Can we hurry up a bit? I am starving.”

Findlay did not remember the next few moments very clearly, but he remembered their consequences for the rest of his life. He was suddenly knocked sideways by something that felt like a blow from a hammer on the side of his head, and he fell from his horse onto the stony surface of the road. He landed on the side of his head, and there was a concussion like a drumbeat that pulsed through his ear for a few heartbeats. Vaguely he thought he heard shouts of triumph. He tried to remain conscious but it was a losing battle, and blackness descended.