“But their exchange was conducted over water,” I pointed out simply for the sake of argument.
“Because Musselburgh is near the forth. Maybe they thought asking Buchan to travel to the forth was too far away. Or perhaps we came too close to catching them the last time. I don’t know. But I must say I prefer this payment location to that of one over water.”
“Yes, but the ease of this location is deceptive,” my brother murmured, tapping his fingers against the arms of his chair.
Our uncle nodded in agreement, finally settling into a chair near the warmth of the fire.
“Shotton Pass is at the edge of the Cheviot Hills, and that Border terrain is riddled with old reiver trails. It’s broken country, dreary and desolate. Easy to lose your way and wander into a moss or a bog if you don’t know where you’re going. There’s no way to know which trail the horse will have been trained to follow.”
Gage’s brow furrowed in frustration. “Yes, but surely it’s been mapped.”
Trevor shook his head. “They’re all incomplete. How do you think the Border reivers were so often able to evade the wardens and each other? The terrain and twisting passes are known only to those who live on it. That’s how it’s always been. And that’s how they mean to keep it.”
“Then I suppose we’ll need someone to ride with us who knows the area.”
Trevor nodded to me. “Kiera and I have both ridden through the Cheviots. Though we’re by no means experienced enough to claim we know the terrain, especially in the dark. I’ll ask around. See if I can find someone willing to guide us.”
I was both surprised and pleased that Trevor and Gage were not trying to leave me out of this part of the investigation, as I’d fully expected them to. I supposed they thought me safe enough trailing a horse through the desolate loneliness that was the Cheviot Hills. That or they simply recalled how little good it did to leave me behind. In both prior investigations, I had been left behind for my own protection while Gage and others pursued important leads, and yet I’d still ended up in danger.
“I’m sure my son and some of my nephews would also be willing to ride out with you if you think it would help,” Uncle Andrew offered.
Gage rubbed his chin in thought. “No. I think four riders are plenty. Many more and we might just become confused in the darkness. After all, to follow the thieves’ horse, we may have to rely more on the sound of the horse’s hooves than on sight.” He flicked a glance at me. “When we happen upon the culprits, we’ll proceed with caution. If there are too many for us to safely apprehend, then we’ll simply have to follow them or set a watch over their location.” He turned to my uncle. “But if your son and nephews would be willing to wait at an inn close to the location of our initial exchange, then we could send word to them should we need assistance.”
He nodded. “It will be done.”
Gage shifted in his seat so that he could better see Lord Buchan, who had been quietly listening to our plans. “I’ll need you to position some men around the abbey on the evening of the exchange and for several days and nights after. When Sir Colum Casselbeck’s ransom was paid, his bones were returned to the church attached to the graveyard where he was exhumed.” His jaw hardened. “If they somehow manage to elude us while the ransom is being paid, perhaps we can catch them when they return the body.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Though the light of day had not yet completely vanished from the sky, the waning crescent moon already shone on the horizon as we crested the ridge of land that would lead us down into Shotton Pass. Once the pale pink and yellow light of dusk faded from the sky, there would be little natural light to guide us. The thieves had chosen their time well.
I shivered as the wind whipped through the valley between the two rises. The rough land was speckled with scrub and rocks and bracken. If not for the unpleasant reason behind our visit, I might have found the vista before us rather beautiful, in a bleak and melancholy way. The sky above was streaked with low wispy clouds tinted red by the setting sun, and the almost desperate loneliness of the Cheviot Hills stretched out before us. Even the bitter gusts of the winter wind rattling the skeletal branches of the lowlying scrubs added to the landscape’s desolation.
I huddled deeper into my royal blue woolen riding habit and brown fur-lined cloak. The rain had finally ceased a few hours before, and I was grateful to only be contending with the cold and not the wet. I could not say the same for Figg, my strawberry roan filly, whose pale legs were already coated in icy mud.