by Stuart Gibbs
Ahead, Greg saw a shaft of light beaming down into the mine again, so bright after his time in the darkness that it was almost blinding. It wasn’t until he stumbled toward it that he discovered it wasn’t the same shaft he’d come down; he’d gotten turned around in the mine somehow. This one was much larger, ten feet across, designed for taking the huge chunks of limestone out through it. A wooden pallet of stone was currently being winched up toward the opening above.
Another rickety ladder extended toward the surface. Greg scrambled up it, knowing he had to move fast if he hoped to escape through the opening before the pallet blocked it. But his energy was almost spent; it took every last drop of adrenaline he had to climb.
He’d just skirted past the pallet and was nearly to the top when the ladder trembled violently. In one terrifying instant, Greg realized he’d made a mistake. The man below didn’t have to climb up after him; he could catch Greg by simply taking out the ladder. Greg lunged for the lip of earth above him just as the ladder collapsed below. He caught the grassy edge with his fingertips and clung there for a moment. He had a glimpse of the intricate block and tackle system arranged over the hole—and then his fingers slipped from the edge and he dropped back into the mine.
He tumbled backward through the air, but the fall wasn’t nearly as far as he expected. He quickly slammed into stone, and it took him a second to realize he’d landed on the pallet, not the ground below. However, his sudden weight on the pallet overwhelmed the block and tackle that supported it. Above him, a pulley ripped free of the support beam and the rope went slack. Greg dropped again, only this time he was riding the pallet. Halfway down, the rope caught again as the other pulleys held, and the entire pallet jerked to a stop with such force that it broke apart. Greg clung to the rope as the pallet disintegrated beneath him, scattering its load of stone.
Below, Greg heard a terrified scream, followed by a sickening wet crunch. When he finally gathered the nerve to look down, he saw the assassin at the base of the shaft, squashed beneath a massive block of limestone.
Greg’s stomach churned, and he quickly looked away.
“Sacre bleu!” Porthos’s voice echoed through the mine-shaft. Greg looked up to see his fellow Musketeer perched on the rim above. “Now that’s what I call knocking your enemy flat!”
Greg was surprised his friend could joke at a time like this, but Porthos’s humor tempered the shock of having been involved in the death of another person, however deserving.
“Hold on tight,” Porthos told him. “We’ll get you out of there soon.”
A few seconds later, the rope began to rise, pulling Greg up with it. Soon he emerged into daylight to see an ox team tugging the other end of the rope. Greg collapsed in the grass, exhausted.
Athos was close by, talking to a group of miners. Aramis was there, too, looking far more shaken from the battle than the others. He approached the edge of the pit, looked down at what remained of Greg’s attacker and recoiled, green with nausea.
“What happened up here?” Greg asked, to distract him.
“We ran the others off,” Aramis reported.
An image suddenly returned to Greg from his dash through the woods: the man with the mustache and hatred in his eyes. “Valois was with them,” he said.
The others all turned to him, surprised. “You saw him?” Porthos asked.
Greg nodded. “Only for a second, but I’m sure it was him. He must have been in command of the assassins. Why else would he have been here?”
“How’d he link up with a team of assassins?” Aramis asked. “And foreign assassins at that?”
“How could you tell they were foreigners?” Porthos asked.
“Because they weren’t speaking French,” Aramis replied.
Porthos nodded understanding. “Then who were they?”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Athos came over, leading two miners with another ladder slung between them. He pointed to the shaft, and the men dutifully lowered the ladder into it.
Aramis turned even greener. “Oh no. You can’t possibly expect us all to go down there and see the … ah … remains.”
“Don’t worry,” Athos said. “You two stay here and rest. Porthos and I can handle it.”
“We can?” Porthos asked, going pale.
“Unless you’d prefer all the queen’s handmaidens to know you were afraid of a dead body.” Athos grinned, then descended gamely into the pit.
“It’s not a dead body. It’s a squashed body,” Porthos muttered, but Athos’s goad had worked, and he clambered down the ladder himself.
While they waited, Aramis filled Greg in on the details of how the others had fended off the assassins, who had ultimately fled on horseback. Pursuing them had been out of the question, however—the boys’ horses were too far away to recover in time—and besides, they were all concerned for Greg’s well-being. Aramis admitted they’d all been mighty relieved to find Greg alive; the odds had seemed much more likely that he’d have been the body left in the pit, rather than the other way around.
Finally, they heard the ladder creaking and groaning until Porthos and Athos emerged over the edge.
“Well?” Greg asked expectantly. “Any idea who he is?”
“Since he’s dead, he didn’t respond very well to questioning,” Porthos said. “But he was wearing this.” He handed Greg a swatch of the man’s clothing.
Now, in broad daylight, while he wasn’t running for his life, Greg had his first chance to take a good look at it. He and Aramis had the same thought at once.
“It’s silk,” Aramis said. He examined the fabric closely. “Just like the piece we found from Milady’s mysterious man at the inn.”
“He also had this on him.” Athos held out a piece of parchment.
Aramis took it, trying to ignore the blood spattered on it. It was folded over three times and had been sealed with red wax, although the seal had been shattered so that only a wedge of it remained. It would have been the top of the seal, displaying a small crown sandwiched between what Greg thought might have been a P and an R.
Aramis unfolded the parchment and frowned. “I’m not familiar with this language,” he said with a sigh.
Greg glanced at the letter over Aramis’s shoulder. The text was written in a florid, ornate script, but he could make out the words: El portador de esta carta es un emisario del rey de España.... “It’s Spanish,” he said.
Athos and Porthos looked at him, surprised—which they always did when he, rather than Aramis, turned out to actually know something. And then understanding dawned on Athos. “Of course you know that! You’re from Artagnan, and it’s right by Spain.”
“Right.” Greg tried to sound convincing.
“What does it say?” Porthos asked.
“I can’t actually read it. But it’s something like ‘he who carries this letter …’”
“It’s an emissary note!” Aramis said. When Greg looked at him blankly, he explained. “They’re written for people traveling in foreign lands on official business. So they can properly present themselves.” He looked back at the wax seal fragment with renewed understanding. “This man was an emissary of the king of Spain.”
The other three boys gasped. “How do you know?” Athos asked.
Aramis pointed to the crown at the top of the seal. “That’s the sign of a king. The ‘P’ is for ‘Philip,’ king of Spain. And the ‘R’ is for ‘Rex,’ or ‘king’ in Latin.”
“So,” Athos said, “two months ago Dinicoeur had Milady deliver a letter to a man in Spanish silks. And today Dinicoeur’s right-hand man, Valois, seemingly oversees four men sent by King Philip to kill us. You realize what this means?”
Aramis nodded. “Dinicoeur and Richelieu are in league with Spain.”
The other Musketeers frowned, aware how serious this was. “We’d better tell the king,” Greg said.
SIX
LOUIS XIII SAT ON HIS THRONE, LISTENING INTENTLY TO every word the Musketeers said. Once they were
done relating the events of the day, his brow furrowed with concern. “Obviously Valois is connected to these Spanish assassins,” he said. “But are you sure that links Dinicoeur and Richelieu to them? Is there any chance Valois could have been acting on his own?”
“I’d doubt that, Your Majesty,” Athos replied, shaking his head. “I know Valois well, as I served under him as a member of the King’s Guard. He is very good at carrying out orders, but he is a follower, not a leader.”
“And we know he’s following Dinicoeur, rather than one of my other enemies? I’ve heard rumors that the Prince of Condé is plotting against me.”
Aramis stepped forward. “The last time Valois was seen, he was aiding Dinicoeur and Richelieu in Richelieu’s escape from the Bastille. It’s obvious that he has thrown his lot in with them. Given his involvement today, we’re assuming that Dinicoeur has made some sort of alliance with Spain, then sent the assassins back here to take care of us under Valois’ command.”
“But why go after the four of you, rather than me?” Louis asked. “And what would this alliance be, exactly? Dinicoeur has been expelled from my court. What could he possibly have to offer Spain?”
“We don’t know,” Aramis admitted.
“Then we must find out at once.” The king looked over at the Musketeers. “How soon can the four of you be prepared to leave?”
Greg was completely caught off guard—and he noticed Aramis and Porthos reacting with surprise as well. Only Athos seemed pleased by the question. “Within the hour,” he replied, his eyes, glittering with excitement.
“Hold on a moment,” Porthos said. “You want us to go to Spain?”
“I want you to track down Richelieu and Dinicoeur,” Louis replied. “If the trail leads to Spain, so be it.”
“Why us?” Aramis asked. “Surely there are members of the King’s Guard more qualified for such an arduous journey....”
“I do not question your qualifications,” said Louis. “You have proven your mettle before. That is why I chose to make you Musketeers. Your job is to protect the throne—and I cannot imagine a bigger threat to the throne right now than Spain rising against us. It would mean that my upcoming marriage is merely a ruse to lull us into complacency.”
“Wait,” Greg said. “How could the marriage be a Spanish ruse? I thought you were marrying Anne of Austria.”
Everyone in the room turned to Greg. “Where, exactly, do you think Anne of Austria is from?” Louis asked.
“Um … Austria?” Greg ventured.
Athos and Porthos both rolled their eyes. “No,” Aramis said. “She’s the daughter of Philip, the king of Spain.”
“Then why is she called ‘Anne of Austria’?” Greg demanded.
“Because her mother’s from Austria,” Aramis explained, as though it was obvious.
“That still doesn’t make sense,” Greg said defensively. “If she’s from Spain, she should be called Anne of Spain—”
“Anne’s name isn’t important right now,” Louis said sharply. “What is important are the motives of Anne’s father, King Phillip. He has claimed this marriage is to broker a peace between France and the Habsburg Empire, but I have long suspected that he would prefer to control our country outright.”
“Why is that?” Aramis asked.
“Have any of you ever heard of the Spanish Road?” Louis asked.
Greg, Porthos, and Athos shook their heads. To their surprise, Aramis did, too.
“I’d have suspected not.” Louis sighed. “It doesn’t go through France—yet. You see, Spain, on our southern border, rules the Habsburg Netherlands, on our northeast. Spain has to provide the Netherlands with troops and supplies, but we have never given them permission to pass through our country, so instead the Spanish have to go by boat from Barcelona to Milan, then over the Alps all the way across Europe. That’s the Spanish Road. It’s an extremely treacherous route that can take over a year. It would be far preferable for them to pass through France, for which reason Anne has been betrothed to me....”
“I’m sorry,” Greg said, aghast. “Philip agreed to marry his daughter off just to get a more direct route to the Netherlands?”
Everyone swiveled to stare at him once again. Greg realized, a little too late, that he’d just let his modern-day sensibilities show.
“Every royal marriage brokers some peace or another,” the king explained. “It’s the way of the world. But suppose that Philip never intended to marry Anne off at all? Or perhaps, he was willing to do it—and then Dinicoeur came to him with a better offer. If either of those scenarios is true, then this marriage is a sham designed to distract us.”
“From what?” Athos asked.
“That’s what you need to find out,” the king said. “You shall leave as soon as possible. Dinicoeur and Richelieu were last seen fleeing south, most likely headed toward the Rhône River. I understand that’s the fastest way to Spain. You should head that way yourselves. Take the Rhône south to the city of Arles, then cross southern France overland to the Pyrenees Mountains. Whatever you learn, send messages back via homing pigeon. Hopefully, you’ll figure out Dinicoeur’s plans before you reach Spain itself, but if you must, proceed into that country with caution.”
Greg looked at Louis, impressed. Louis was sounding like a proper king, so different from the boy he had met with days before.
“You don’t have to worry about us.” Athos whipped out his sword and slashed the air. “We can handle ourselves.”
Louis raised a hand, signaling Athos to sheath his blade. “I’d prefer this was a diplomatic mission. I need you to make as few waves as possible. Our peace with Spain is delicate enough as it is. You must proceed with great caution.”
“Wow,” Porthos muttered under his breath. “This sounds better and better all the time.”
Aramis stepped forward, looking a bit pale. “Not to question your judgment, Your Highness, but this is a very long journey. And none of us have ever been out of sight of Paris....”
“Save for D’Artagnan.” Louis nodded toward Greg, who felt his heart sink. “His hometown is close to the Spanish border. He got here. Thus, he must have some knowledge of the open road.”
Greg’s concern about the trip suddenly grew a hundred times worse. “To be honest,” he said, “I didn’t exactly come to Paris over the Rhône....”
“Even better!” the king exclaimed. “Then you know another route back to Paris, should there be trouble.”
“Ah, well, the thing is … I’m not exactly comfortable with the fate of our excursion resting on my knowledge of France,” Greg stammered. “I don’t know if it’s entirely reliable....”
“On the contrary,” Louis said. “You four are as reliable as they come. The truth is, you are the only ones I know I can trust. I know I’m asking a great deal of you, but you have served me valiantly in the past, and I expect that you can do it once again.”
Athos knelt before Louis and bowed his head. “It is my honor to serve the crown on this mission,” he said.
To either side of Greg, Aramis and Porthos knelt as well, though a bit more reluctantly. Despite his serious misgivings about the mission, Greg saw no choice but to join the crowd. “It is my honor as well,” he said, kneeling.
Louis beamed at them proudly. “No, the honor is mine—to have as impressive a team as this. Now depart, before any more time slips away.”
The Musketeers stood again, and Louis dismissed them with a casual wave. They obediently turned and left the throne room.
In the hall, Aramis wasted no time in giving them all assignments. “Athos, take care of the horses and weapons. We’ll need four extra steeds to carry our gear. Porthos, you’re in charge of provisions and water. I’ll go to the royal cote and the homing pigeons. D’Artagnan, you’ve traveled the farthest among us. Get whatever supplies you think are necessary for the long journey. I’d like to leave before the hour is up so we can get some distance before the sun sets.”
The others nodded agreement
and quickly scattered, leaving Greg alone in the palace. He immediately sagged against the wall, overwhelmed. He’d had a hard enough time getting by in medieval Paris; how was he going to survive a grueling trip into hostile territory? He didn’t have the traveling expertise Louis thought he did—which meant he might be endangering the mission, rather than helping it.
The mere thought of leaving made his legs tremble. What he really needed to do was head back into the throne room and tell the king he was making a big mistake. Greg would be able to serve Louis far better here....
“Gregory.”
Greg leaped, startled, but then recognized the voice. He turned to find his father coming up next to him.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to frighten you.” Dad looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”
Greg looked up at his dad and sighed. “Well,” he started, then recounted the new task he and the Musketeers had been given.
Greg’s father shook his head. “That’s it. I’m coming with you,” he said.
Greg felt a surge of respect for his father but shook his head. “You can’t, Dad. You need to stay here and take care of Mom. She needs you. I’ll have the other Musketeers to look out for me.” Greg didn’t mention the other reason he felt his father should stay: Dad was hopeless in the outdoors.
Now Dad smiled weakly at him but nodded in defeat. “I suppose you’re right. I just wish I could do more to help....”
“You can. Keep a watch on the palace, and”—he lowered his voice—“Aramis found something about the Devil’s Stone being connected to a place called the White City of Emperor Constantine. Do you know what that could be?”
Dad blinked, looking thrown. “No.”
“Well, we need to find out. Aramis won’t be able to research it any more. He’s been going through the archives at Notre Dame. Maybe you could continue his work.”
“I suppose I could, but …”
“Hopefully, it won’t even be necessary. If we can track down Dinicoeur, there’s a good chance he’ll lead me right to the Devil’s Stone. And once I have it, we will be able to get home and all our problems will be over.”