Page 23 of Highlander’s Sloth

The Baron

Lloyd House proved to be harder to find than they thought it would be. Kielder Forest was more of an impenetrable wood than a well-husbanded forest; the undergrowth had not been cut back for many years, and the tree branches hung low.

“We’ll never be able to find the manor house amidst all this,” Kirsty grumbled. “What say ye to us returning to the village and asking the way at the tavern there? We can have a bite to eat and partake of some ale.”

Callum thought this was a good idea, and they turned their tired horses around. They had been on the road for nearly six days now and were both heartily sick of sitting in the saddle and sleeping in makeshift accommodations.

It was not a village but more of a congregating point for neighboring farmers and workers. There was a two-storied tavern, which might have been able to offer passing travelers a bed for the night on the second floor, but its main occupation seemed to be the brewing and selling of ale. The man who served them told them there was no blacksmith, physician, or chapel for ten miles around, and if folks wanted to attend church on Sundays, they were welcome to ride to the nearest diocese. He seemed to accept this sad state of affairs with a shrug and a grunt, moving away to serve another customer after placing a plate of bread and cheese in front of Callum and Kirsty.

“What about the baron?” Kirsty wanted to know as she picked at the bread. “Are the locals no’ allowed to attend the chapel at the manor house?”

When he heard her, the barkeep scoffed, “Huh! He would not spend one penny if it were not on food and drink. The baron likes his vittles and grog, see?”

“That’s good news for us,” Callum said, “because we happen to be in the grog business.”

A man who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the taproom rose up from the bench at these words and inquired of the young couple, “Pray forgive my intrusion, madam and sir, but I could not help but overhear your comment about grog. You would not happen to be Mister and Mistress Macanroy, would you?”

They replied that they were. The man seemed overjoyed at the news.

“Indeed! How fortuitous. The baron sent me here some days back to await your arrival, but I see no wagon. Is it following behind? My master is most anxious that nothing untoward happened to waylay the cargo.”

Callum said, “Me man Brock is even now overseeing the whisky’s safe passage. If ye have the gold, the business can be over an’ done once the cargo arrives.”

The man asserted he was not important enough to be entrusted with such a large transaction and that the baron insisted on doing the deal himself.

“The gold is locked away in a strongbox back at the manor, my laird, but there it is to remain until you have been given the opportunity to count the contents of it.” The man did not add that the baron would most likely want to count the bottles too before handing over such a fortune, but the implication was there nevertheless. “Once that’s done, the chest is yours to do with as you like. Have you made arrangements on how you will transport such a huge amount of gold back up to Scotland?”

Callum hesitated. His father had often told him about bank drafts and other methods merchants relied on during the exchange of goods, but he had only ever listened to how his father favored doing business with half an ear. How difficult could it be, after all? Buying and selling were conducted everywhere, and bargains struck every day, and the baron himself had suggested their deal was done in the most secretive way so as to make their journey back safer.

“I have a plan on how it will be accomplished,” Callum prevaricated when he replied to the man, and Kirsty looked at her husband sharply when he said this. No matter how unobtrusive a chest appeared to be to chance passersby, the five thousand sovereigns inside it were no laughing matter. She knew from watching her brother pay his servants and workers every quarter that he would order a small chest of coins up from Edinburgh or Inverness two weeks before the due day and preferred to keep the bulk of his worth at the bank. He had done it this way since Mac an Goill had been attacked by looters not many years back. The days when lairds kept their treasure locked up in a strong room in a castle tower were long past. When Gilbert needed to pay someone, he gave them a draft on his bank.

The baron’s emissary caught Kirsty’s look and said with a worried expression on his face, “You have made all necessary arrangements for the gold’s safe passage back to Macanroy Lodge, have you not?

“Och, sure, man.” Callum brushed him off. “I will nae leave until me faither’s soldiers arrive.”

Kirsty interrupted this outright lie drily, saying, “I thought we were to carry back a promissory note, Cal? I believe that’s how transactions of this kind are conducted.”

Callum looked nonplussed, and the baron’s emissary raised his hands. “Whatever you decide, I’m sure a bargain can be struck according to everyone’s satisfaction. Can I know when you expect the wagon of whisky to arrive here?”

There was some chat about whether they should stay at the alehouse to await the wagon’s arrival or hope Brock would find his way to the manor house with no directions to guide him. Callum and Kirsty were sick of the road and were happy to agree with the man when he offered to keep watch on the road for Brock and the wagon, which would allow them to make their way to the baron’s house immediately with the help of his very concise directions.

And so it was, as the sun moved into the west, Callum and Kirsty rode up the wide, tree-lined avenue leading to Lloyd House. It was an impressive red brick structure, with many chimneys and dormer windows adorning the roof.

A footman flung open the door when they reached the entrance, and a groom darted out to take their horses and lead the weary animals around the back to the stables. The Macanroys were no less weary.

“His lordship awaits you in the withdrawing room,” the footman intoned, after taking their coats and hanging them on hooks in the entrance hall.

Kirsty hoped she did not look as bedraggled and dusty as she felt but followed Callum anyway, praying the baron would be understanding.

The withdrawing room doors opened to reveal a jovial-looking man dressed in a capacious coat with many bright metal buttons on the cuffs and side hem, an enormous peruque wig on his fat-jowled face, and thick, stumpy legs tightly encased in silk stockings with silver-embroidered clocks weaving down the side.

Looking at his beaming countenance, Kirsty could not help herself from giving thanks for her tall, well-built, handsome husband and his no-nonsense short brown hair. Gilbert could have done so much worse by her.

“Welcome, welcome!” the baron chortled, bestirring his bulk enough to waddle over and shake their hands. “But I see no wagon. No whisky? How is this? Were you set upon by bandits? Never say so!”

Callum assured his host the whisky was on the way, and the baron’s man was even now awaiting Brock’s arrival at the alehouse.

The baron looked hugely relieved.