by Stuart Gibbs
“We’ve presumed there’s an army nearby,” Greg put in.
“That’s the guess of everyone in Arles as well,” Augustus agreed.
“And yet, you’ve all gone and supplied it,” Athos snarled through clenched teeth. “Even though it has invaded our country.”
“And what would you do if you were in our position?” Augustus asked. “If we refuse to sell to the Spaniards, they’ll simply take what they want. There is no one to stop them. Paris has never done a thing for us. You are the first emissaries from the king any of us have ever seen in our lives. Louis has never sent an army here to protect us from the Spaniards. He only cares about protecting himself and his precious capital city.”
Greg shared a self-conscious look with Porthos. Augustus had a point.
Athos wasn’t so convinced. “The king hasn’t sent an army because he has no idea this is happening. We have only just informed him of the possibility....”
“Oh,” Augustus said. “So the king’s defense isn’t that he doesn’t care about us. It’s that he’s ignorant.”
Athos flushed red, but Greg stepped in before he could take his anger out on Augustus. “I think we’ve got offtrack here,” Greg told the trader. “You want the king to send an army? We can make him do it. The more we know about the Spanish, the more we can help. Do you have any idea where this army might be?”
“From what I understand, most of the goods the Spanish have purchased have been delivered to the countryside west of Nîmes,” Augustus said. “If there’s an army, that’s where it must be. And I’m guessing the assassins who came after you went to meet them there.”
“Then that’s where Milady is.” It was the first time Aramis had spoken in more than an hour. The clue to Milady’s whereabouts had injected new life into him, as though he suddenly had a glimmer of hope again. “But … Nîmes is north of us, isn’t it?”
“Northwest,” Augustus corrected. “About a day’s ride.”
“So … they’re not heading toward the river?” Aramis asked. “How do they intend to get to Paris?”
“Overland, I suppose,” Augustus said. “The Rhône might be the fastest route for a small force, but there’s no way an entire army could travel up it. There aren’t enough boats in all of France. But there’s an old Roman road from Nîmes that heads north....”
“To Paris?” Porthos inquired.
“I assume so,” Augustus said. “Although I can’t say for sure. I don’t know anyone who’s ever gone the whole way there. I’ve only been as far as the aqueduct.”
“What aqueduct?” Aramis demanded.
“The Pont du Gard,” Augustus explained. “The Romans built it. It used to bring water to Nîmes, but it stopped working two hundred years ago. It still functions as a bridge, though, over the Gard River.”
The Musketeers looked to one another. It seemed to Greg that they were all of one mind immediately.
“We need to go to Nîmes,” Aramis said. “To observe this army and rescue Milady.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Porthos agreed.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Augustus said. “Have I absolved myself?”
“Not quite yet.” Athos got back in the trader’s face. “We need some horses.”
“I don’t have any more!” Augustus cried. “I swear it.”
“But you know where to find some, I’m sure.” Athos tightened his grip on Augustus’s hair. “Six horses would go a very long way toward absolving your sins. Otherwise, I believe the penalty for conspiring to kill a Musketeer is death.”
“Six horses,” Augustus said quickly. “I think I might know someone.”
Within fifteen minutes Augustus had tracked down six of the remaining horses in Arles. Athos refused to let Augustus out of his sight for an instant, lest the trader attempt to betray them again, so he and Porthos stayed with him while Aramis, Catherine, and Greg headed back to the boat to gather their gear.
“We ought to send another pigeon,” Aramis said as they hurried down the dock. “To let the king know the Spaniards will be coming over the Roman road, rather than from the Rhône.”
“But we don’t know that for sure,” Greg cautioned. “We only have four pigeons left. Perhaps we should wait until we know the army’s route before wasting one.”
“It’s a moot point,” Catherine said, pointing to their boat.
The cage that had held the pigeons had been smashed to bits. The birds—and thus, their only ability to communicate with Paris—were gone.
TWENTY
ALTHOUGH THE OTHERS WERE IN A DESPERATE HURRY TO leave the city and track down Milady, there was one more essential thing Greg needed to do before they left. While the others packed up the horses, he raced back to St. Trophimus.
Brother Timothy answered the door. “Can anyone here read Greek?” Greg demanded.
“Brother Leo can,” Timothy replied.
Greg didn’t even wait for Timothy to lead him to the library. He charged through the monastery and found Brother Leo exactly where he’d last seen him, hunched over his desk.
“Begging your pardon, Brother,” Greg said. “But I have something I need translated.”
“I’ll be with you in due time,” Leo said, without looking up.
“It won’t take long,” Greg pleaded. “And I’m in a very big hurry....”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that patience is a virtue,” Leo chided. He dipped his quill pen in ink, then delicately shaded one of the pictures on the border with painstaking care.
“I think this will help keep the man who stole the text from you from recovering the Devil’s Stone,” Greg said.
Leo looked up from his work, and Greg proffered Dinicoeur’s map and pointed at the letters on it. “Can you read this?”
Leo took the map and studied it. After a few seconds, Leo handed the paper back with a quizzical expression. “I can read it, though it doesn’t make much sense to me. All it says is ‘the crown of Minerva.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Greg frowned. He’d been hoping for much more than that. “Not really,” he admitted. “I don’t even know who Minerva could be.”
“She was a Roman goddess,” Leo offered. “The equivalent of the Greeks’ Athena. Goddess of wisdom, medicine, commerce, poetry, music, and magic.”
“Still doesn’t help.” Greg snuck a glance at his watch. It was time to get back to the others. “Sorry for wasting your time, Brother. I must get back to my friends.”
“The pursuit of knowledge is never a waste of time,” Leo replied, but Greg was already racing out the door.
As he ran back through the streets of Arles, he chided himself for ever thinking the translation might solve his problems. What had he expected, that Dinicoeur would have written ‘The second half of the Devil’s Stone is right here’ on his map?
Maybe the inscription didn’t even pertain to the Devil’s Stone, Greg thought now. Maybe it was merely idle doodling. Maybe Dinicoeur hadn’t even written it....
Greg’s step faltered as a thought came to him.
Milady. She had given them the map. She had only shown it to the Musketeers, not the king—and she had been the one to suggest that Dinicoeur planned to invade Paris. It must have been a diversion—a ruse. She had been manipulating them all along, pushing them closer and closer to the Spanish army. He was sure of it now.
But why? Was it merely to lure them into an ambush—or was she up to something else?
He reached the pier, where the others had the horses loaded and waiting.
“It’s about time,” Athos said testily.
“Don’t mind him,” Catherine said. “We only finished with the horses a minute ago. Did you find out what you needed?”
“Not really,” Greg said. “Does anyone know of a crown of Minerva somewhere in Paris?”
The others all shook their heads. “Doesn’t mean anything to me,” Porthos said.
“Me, either,” Aramis admitted sadly. “Sorry.”
Gr
eg sighed. Every time he thought he was getting closer to the Devil’s Stone, it seemed he ended up going backward.
“Let’s go,” Athos said. “We’ve wasted enough time here. A girl’s life may hang in the balance.” He sprang onto his horse.
Greg followed his friend’s lead. Even if Milady wasn’t in peril, Dinicoeur still had to be confronted.
As they all spurred their horses and rode out of the city, Greg realized there was nothing he could do about his hunch that Milady was working with the enemy. He was certain no one would believe him.
TWENTY-ONE
BY THE TIME THE MUSKETEERS LOCATED THE SPANISH army hours later, it was no longer west of Arles. It was on the move, now north of Nîmes, getting closer to Paris with each step.
And it was significantly larger than anyone had imagined.
“Good heavens,” Catherine gasped. “There must be two thousand soldiers.”
“At least,” Porthos said, growing pale.
They all watched the army from atop a high ridgeline. The forest here was different from that near Paris; the trees were scraggly and stunted, struggling to survive on the rocky slopes, though they still provided the Musketeers with decent cover for their reconnaissance.
The Spanish were marching on the Roman road, which wound along the floor of the narrow valley below, flanking the southern bank of the Gard River. The river, swollen from summer rains, was a raging torrent of water a quarter mile wide. Anyone who tried to pilot a boat across it would be taking their life in their hands.
The Roman road was still in surprisingly good condition, given that it had been built a thousand years earlier. The Spanish army filled it, marching eight men across in lines that stretched from one bend of the valley to the other.
Not far down the slope from the Musketeers were the remains of the ancient water-delivery system the Romans had built. A three-foot-wide cement sluice ran along the hillside, perfectly canted so that water had once flowed downhill through it for over fifty miles to Nîmes, an incredible feat of engineering. The sluice was still able to carry water; according to some local herdsmen, the problem was that the water pumps at the source had long ago fallen apart due to poor maintenance.
Greg watched the Spaniards snake along the riverbank. They were too far away for him to make out specific faces. He wished he had binoculars or a spyglass to see closer. “Can anyone make out Michel or Dominic?” he asked.
“Or Milady?” Catherine added.
Everyone shook their heads. “There’s a man dressed very formally up at the front of the whole procession,” Athos said. “I’d guess that’s Michel or Dominic, but I can’t tell for sure.”
“Truth be told, we don’t even know if Michel or Dominic is with this army,” Aramis admitted. “That’s still just a guess on our part.”
“Same goes for Milady,” Porthos said. “I’d expect that, if she was down there, she’d be held as a prisoner. Chained up on a horse or something. But I don’t see anyone like that.”
Greg looked at his fellow Musketeers and Catherine, their faces etched with grave concern. The size of the advancing force below—combined with how little they knew about their enemy—was daunting. And concern about Milady had depressed everyone else’s spirits even further. “At least we’ve given the French army advance notice they’re coming,” Greg said, trying to cheer everyone up.
Everyone grew quiet. Athos and Porthos both shook their heads.
“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.
Porthos looked up. “The French army is nowhere near as large nor as disciplined as this.” He waved toward the Spaniards below them. “If they were to meet in the field of battle, the French would be decimated. If only there was a way to warn them....”
“Well, there’s not,” Athos said. “Not with our pigeons gone. Save for us riding back to Paris with the news ourselves.”
The others all nodded, though no one seemed pleased by this. The idea of racing all the way back to Paris again with bad news was onerous. In addition, Greg felt Aramis and Athos probably couldn’t handle it; riding just this far had been difficult for them. The constant jouncing from the ride had inflamed both their wounds.
“There is one other course of action,” Aramis said. “We could try to turn back the army ourselves.”
Porthos wheeled on him, wide-eyed. “Are you insane?” he cried.
“We owe it to the people of France to try—” Aramis began.
“Our responsibility is to the king,” Athos interrupted.
“And his responsibility is to his people,” Aramis countered. “Or at least it ought to be. Augustus had a point: The crown has done nothing to protect the people of this region. If we merely run back to alert Paris, how many other towns and communities will be overtaken by this force? Even if, by some miracle, the king’s army repels the Spanish, the allegiance of the French people might still be lost. And then the country will be lost as well.”
“That’s a perfectly valid point,” Porthos said. “But you’re forgetting something very important: There are only five of us and thousands of them. And two of us are injured.”
“I can still wield a sword,” Athos said defensively.
“Perhaps, but you can’t run.” Porthos pointed to Athos’s wounded leg. “Or were you expecting one of us to carry you into battle?” He then turned to Aramis. “And you can barely work a sword on a good day. Now that your shoulder is hurt, you might as well just wave a surrender flag.”
“I can fight,” Catherine offered.
“You’re a woman,” Porthos said dismissively.
“So what?” Catherine asked, offended. “I saved D’Artagnan’s life.”
“Okay, fine,” Porthos gave in. “You killed one man. Now, if you could kill two thousand, I’d welcome you onto our team. But you can’t. In fact, none of us can. Not alone. Not together. If we try to fight that army, all we’ll do is get ourselves killed. I can guarantee you that.”
“Agreed.” Athos looked directly at Aramis and said, “Any attempt to confront the Spanish alone would be idiocy. We’re not doing it.”
“Now listen here!” Aramis snapped. “I’ve had about enough of your insubordination! The king made me the leader of this team....”
“Well, the king isn’t exactly a genius,” Athos shot back. “Making you our leader was obviously a mistake.”
“Now wait,” Porthos said quickly, before things could deteriorate further. “Aramis is a good leader, and we all know he’s the smartest of us....”
“Smarter than you, perhaps,” Athos said.
Porthos flushed, insulted.
Before Greg knew it, the three of them were shouting at one another. Every grievance they’d had over the last few weeks boiled over at once. They were all so angry, they seemed to have forgotten where they were. Greg feared their voices would carry down into the valley and alert the Spanish to their presence.
Catherine obviously shared his concern. She looked at him pleadingly. “D’Artagnan, you have to do something.”
Greg nodded, quickly getting to his feet. “Quiet!” he demanded. “All of you! Shut up right now!”
To his surprise, everyone did exactly what he’d told them to, and suddenly the woods were silent again, the others staring at him expectantly.
“There’s far more at stake here right now than our feelings,” Greg told them. “You might all hate each other at the moment, but I know you care about doing what’s right. That’s why you’re Musketeers. Our country needs us to be a team right now, so we all need to put our differences aside and stay a team.”
The other three Musketeers looked from one to another, as though ashamed of their behavior. Then Athos turned to Greg and asked, “What would you have us do?”
“What the king asked of us when he made us Musketeers,” Greg replied. “You can think whatever you want about him, but he certainly understood our strengths when he assigned us our roles—and we should use those strengths now. Athos, you’re the best fighter among us. There�
��s no one I’d rather have protect me. Porthos, you’re the best at thinking on your feet. There’s no one I’d trust more to get me out of a tight spot. And Aramis, you’re the brains, so if you have an idea … I think we’d all better listen to it.”
Athos held Greg’s gaze for a long time, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You’re right. Aramis, forgive my insolence. What do you have for us?”
Aramis smiled and waved the others in to gather around him. As they came forward, Catherine stepped up beside Greg and said, “I’m guessing your strength is holding this team together.”
“Exactly what the king assigned him to do,” Porthos said.
“Well, he’s very good at it,” Catherine said. And to Greg’s surprise, she slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze.
Greg felt a flush of excitement surge through him, but there was no time to think about it. There were other things to focus on at the moment.
“I never said we should fight that army,” Aramis told them all. “I said we should try to turn it back.”
“There’s a difference?” Porthos asked.
“Quite a big one,” Aramis replied. “For one thing, there’s significantly less chance of us ending up dead.”
“But there’s still a chance?” Porthos wanted to know.
Aramis paused before answering. “Yes,” he admitted.
“What’s your plan?” Greg asked.
Aramis pointed to the sluice below. “This runs all the way to the Pont du Gard. It’s the only bridge over the Gard River. If we were to take it out, the Spanish wouldn’t have any other way to cross.”
“Unless they build a new bridge,” Athos countered. “Or boats.”
“All of which will take time,” Aramis said. “It could take months to build a bridge. And as we can all see, the Gard is far too treacherous to take a boat across. Yes, the army could backtrack and try to find another route north, but that will also take a great deal of time. And time is valuable to an army. The more they waste, the less food they have to go around and the more disgruntled the forces become. Soldiers begin to defect. I can’t guarantee that taking out the bridge will repel all the soldiers—but it may demoralize them. It will also buy us time to get to Paris and assemble a stronger defensive force—and it will send a message to the local people that the king is trying to protect them.”