The Last Musketeer

by Stuart Gibbs

  Then Greg looked up, toward Paris. His throat caught.

  The city was gone.

  The jammed streets, the tour boats, the cacophony of taxi horns and ambulance sirens . . . the jumbled topography of church spires, domed monuments, and skyscrapers, all overshadowed by the Eiffel Tower . . . All of it had been replaced, except for Notre Dame, which now towered over everything else. The Seine was dark and untamed. Few of the buildings stood over two stories. The stagnant air was so quiet that Greg could hear the sound of horses’ hooves and conversations on the other side of the river, but it was thick with that powerful odor: horse dung and sweat and sewage. He glanced up at the night sky. The narrow streets were lit only by the weak glow of candles and oil lamps from within houses, and without the light pollution of a million neon signs and every other kind of electrical power source, Greg could see more stars than he ever had in his life.

  It wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. It felt too real.

  He’d gone back in time.

  PART TWO

  PARIS, 1615

  Chapter Four

  GREG WASN’T SURE HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED SINCE he’d jumped out the window onto the narrow dirt road that ran between the Louvre and the Seine—a road pocked with mud puddles and steaming piles of horse manure. Fear made it impossible to gauge time. All he knew for sure was that he was running into this strange version of Paris, rather than away from it. He couldn’t run away from it. The entire city was surrounded by a wall. A massive, three-story stone wall with armed guards patrolling the top of it.

  There were gates, of course, but there were even more guards stationed at those. A huge gate blocked the road just west of the Louvre. From the size, Greg guessed it was the main entrance into Paris. He could see the guards positioned in the towers on each side of it, on the lookout for enemies.

  He couldn’t risk getting caught. The guards at the Louvre thought he’d been sent to assassinate the king.

  So Greg had turned and headed in the opposite direction, deeper into Paris. This is totally insane. He didn’t even know if he could get along alone in modern Paris, let alone the medieval version of it. How was he ever going to survive?

  The shadowy city streets beyond the palace were empty, but even in the dim torchlight Greg could see that the homes were surprisingly small and filthy. Garbage was strewn everywhere. A housewife tossed the remains of dinner out her window as Greg ran past, nearly hitting him in the face with a bowlful of gruel and bones. Two rats the size of small dogs streaked past him and fell upon the remains.

  As disgusting as the rats were, the Seine was worse. The stench nearly made Greg gag. Gutters ran straight from the houses into the water, as if the river were one big sewer. Clouds of flies hovered along the banks.

  Greg tried to catch his breath without breathing through his nose. Who is Michel Dinicoeur? he wondered. The Frenchman was the key to all of this. It seemed everything he’d arranged—the trip to Paris, the offer to buy the family heirlooms—all of it had merely been a ruse to get his hands on the crystal. Was he a real employee of the Louvre, then? If not, how had he managed to infiltrate the museum? And how had the soldiers in this palace known him?

  Shivering despite the warm air, Greg spotted a bridge upriver, slicing across the western tip of the Île de la Cité: the island in the center of Paris. Greg knew from the bridge’s location that it was the Pont Neuf; he’d seen it earlier, from the taxi. It looked almost the same as it had in the future, only far newer. Without cars on it, it was a surprisingly wide promenade. Best of all, Greg could see people. If the soldiers were still after him, he could lose himself in the crowd for a few minutes and buy some time to think. He made his way onto the bridge.

  Unfortunately, the crowd smelled worse than the river. As far as Greg could tell, everyone who lived in this version of Paris was a derelict or a drunk. They reeked of body odor, bad breath, and alcohol. All sported clothes similar to those Dinicoeur had worn: loose shirts and tight stockings. Everyone’s hair was parted straight down the middle. (Maybe parting on the side hadn’t been invented yet?) But given how they stared at him, Greg knew he must have looked a lot weirder to them in his T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers.

  His head down, Greg ducked and dodged through the sea of puzzled faces. Behind him, he could hear angry shouting: the soldiers were after him, drawing close now, bulldozing through the mob. Greg had intended to cross to the other side of the river, but two more soldiers raced onto the bridge from the far bank. His heart caught. Those soldiers would spot him in seconds. Now, the only way to escape was onto the Île de la Cité itself. He veered off the bridge where it met the tip of the island and into a maze of alleys.

  His knees ached. He needed to find someplace safe to hide and rest. Someplace he could ask for protection . . .

  And then he saw it, straight ahead of him: Notre Dame.

  The cathedral was about the only thing in Paris that looked exactly the same as it would centuries later—only now it loomed above every other building on the island, the tallest structure in the city. Greg wound through the alleys until he reached its massive front doors and pushed on the heavy wood with all his might. They were locked. He pounded on them, but his fists hardly made a sound. Yelling for help was out of the question. It would only alert the soldiers. Summoning what little strength he had left, he ducked along the building, searching for another way in.

  Aha. There was a walled-off courtyard behind the church, the stones rough and pitted. Greg had done plenty of rock climbing. This was a piece of cake. He scrambled over the top and dropped into a garden. All at once, his nostrils relaxed. It smelled . . . well, good here. Like the produce aisle in a high-end grocery store. He was surrounded by fruit trees and vegetables: a patch of green in the midst of the squalid city. Greg slipped through a tangle of melon vines, passing a scarecrow on his way to the back door—

  The scarecrow suddenly came to life.

  It pounced on Greg, flattening him in a patch of rosemary. A hand covered Greg’s mouth before he could scream. The other tightly clutched his neck.

  “The church does not look kindly upon thieves,” the attacker hissed, pressing his knees into Greg’s chest.

  Greg squinted at him, struggling to breathe. To his surprise, he found himself staring at a boy not much older than him—with long brown hair, a thin nose, and piercing blue eyes. He wasn’t much taller than Greg but was clearly strong. He wore a brown cloak over breeches and a shirt that looked as if they had been torn and stitched a thousand times.

  “I wasn’t stealing!” Greg protested in French. “I’m looking for . . .” He struggled to come up with the right word, knowing there was a medieval term for a holy place that provided immunity from the law. “Sanctuary!”

  The older boy’s brow furrowed in confusion, as though he was having trouble understanding Greg’s French. He removed his hand from Greg’s mouth, but kept the other on his neck. “You wish for sanctuary?”

  “Yes,” Greg gasped.

  The boy took a closer look at Greg’s T-shirt and shorts. “You speak and dress very strangely,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  Greg suddenly remembered a long-ago lecture in French class, back at Wellington Prep. According to his teacher, the language had changed so much over time that people a few centuries before would have trouble understanding modern French. Plus, in the past, there had been such great differences in the regional dialects of France itself that people from different parts of the country had difficulty communicating.

  “Far away,” Greg answered. He presumed that was as much of the truth as anyone could handle.

  “And you have come all the way to Paris for sanctuary?” the boy asked skeptically.

  “Er . . . no. Not exactly. I wasn’t, uh . . . accused of the crime until I got here.”

  “What crime?”

  Before Greg could answer, someone banged on the garden gate. “Open up! This is Captain Valois of the king’s guard! We seek a boy who has tried to assassi
nate the king!”

  The boy’s grip tightened on Greg’s neck. “You’re an assassin?”

  “No,” Greg whispered urgently. “I’ve been wrongly accused—”

  Another loud clang cut him off. “Open this gate now, by order of the king!” Valois barked.

  “Hold on! I’m coming!” The boy stood and withdrew a thin rapier from beneath his cloak, although he almost seemed embarrassed to reveal it. “If you try to escape, I will kill you,” he warned.

  “This is a mistake,” Greg pleaded. “Please! I didn’t do anything—”

  “Enough.” The boy pressed the tip of his sword against Greg’s neck. “Do not move. Do not utter another sound.”

  Greg held his breath and watched through the rosemary as the boy went and opened the gate. Four soldiers stood outside, wielding torches. Their light spilled into the garden. Greg stayed as still as he could, hoping to blend into the shadows.

  “There is no assassin here,” the boy told the soldiers.

  “Stand aside. We shall see for ourselves.” Valois, the captain, was a mountain of a man with beady eyes and a mustache as thick as a sausage. He tried to force the gate open farther to storm through, but to his surprise—and Greg’s—the boy held it firm.

  “You have no right,” the boy said calmly.

  “We have an order from the palace!” Valois roared.

  “This is church land,” the boy countered. “The palace has no rule over it.”

  “Step aside, boy!”

  The boy shook his head, but even from his hiding place, Greg could hear him swallow. “If you really seek an assassin, then he’s escaping while you waste your time here. Do you want to catch him . . . or do you wish to provoke the anger of the church against the throne?”

  Valois glared at the boy but finally stepped back. “Your insolence will not be forgotten,” he spat, then whirled and disappeared into the night, the other soldiers following.

  Pent-up air burst from Greg’s burning lungs. “Thank you,” he croaked when the boy returned.

  “Don’t thank me yet.” The boy aimed his rapier at Greg again. “You have much to answer, and I can still turn you over to them. Now tell me, how did you earn the wrath of the king’s guard?”

  “I didn’t try to assassinate the king.”

  “So you’ve said. But I would have guessed anyway. How old are you, fourteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not aware of many fourteen-year-old assassins. What happened?”

  Greg thought for a moment, knowing that the full story might earn him a trip to whatever the medieval equivalent of an insane asylum was. Or, given that he was at a church, maybe the boy would think he’d been possessed. “A man took something that belonged to my parents,” he answered carefully. “When we followed him to the palace to get it back, he told the soldiers we were there to assassinate the king.”

  The boy eyed Greg for a moment. “And who was this man?”

  “Michel Dinicoeur.”

  The boy frowned. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “The soldiers knew him. He has long hair and a pointed beard. . . .”

  “That could be virtually anyone in the king’s guard.”

  “He’s missing his right hand.”

  The boy’s eyebrows rose, but he still shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t really know the names of anyone who serves the king.”

  Really? Greg thought. The palace was close by—and it was the most important place in France. Greg knew plenty about the White House and the people who worked there, and that was over two hundred miles from where he lived. . . . But then Greg realized he was still thinking like someone from the twenty-first century. What happened in the White House was constantly covered on the internet and twenty-four-hour news channels. But here . . . had newspapers even been invented yet? How did anyone learn anything about the palace or the king? The only way would be by word of mouth, which would probably end up more rumor than fact.

  “Well, whoever Dinicoeur is, he has my parents,” Greg said. The terrible thought that had been haunting him burst out of his mouth. “You don’t think he—”

  “Killed them?” the boy finished. “I doubt it. Only the king has the authority to demand an execution on the spot. But I fear the alternative may not be much better for them. Enemies of the crown are sent to La Mort Triste.”

  Greg translated the phrase in his head. The Sad Death. “What is that?”

  “The worst prison in Paris. Even if you’re not scheduled for execution, you don’t survive long. It’s a disease pit.”

  Greg’s father’s last words echoed in his head: Go! It’s the only way to help us!

  “I have to get them out of there,” Greg said.

  The boy held up a hand. “There’s nothing you can do for them at this hour. Come inside and rest. You’ve had a difficult night.”

  Greg’s first thought was that his parents weren’t getting any rest if they were inside La Mort Triste, but the boy was right. He was starving and exhausted. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s very kind of you to help me when you’ve only just met me.”

  “You’ve come to Notre Dame for sanctuary,” the boy replied. “By our code it is my duty to help the helpless. And, no offense, but you seem extremely helpless at the moment.” He smiled to soften his words.

  Greg smiled back. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Aramis.”

  For some reason, the name sounded familiar, though Greg couldn’t place it. “Thank you, Aramis. I’m Greg.”

  “Greg?” Aramis laughed, and then caught himself. “I beg your forgiveness. That was rude of me. But Greg is the strangest name I’ve ever heard.”

  Chapter Five

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, GREG FOUND HIMSELF IN A TINY garret tucked under the roof at the rear of Notre Dame. Given that the cathedral was a beautiful gem of a building, Greg had expected every room to match the exterior. However, Aramis’s room was a dump. The roof pitched steeply above and wind whistled through gaps in the stone wall. There was only one tiny window. Despite the breeze, the room was stifling, having spent the day cooking in the summer sun.

  Aramis had only two candles, which didn’t provide great light, but there wasn’t much to see: only a rickety stool and a small desk that sagged under the weight of thick, poorly made books. There was no bed; only some ratty blankets spread over a thatch of straw. Still, Greg was grateful for it. It certainly beat being back on the street, running for his life.

  As Greg leaned back into the straw, something in his pocket dug into his leg: his great-great-grandfather’s diary. He’d forgotten all about it since tucking it away.

  Greg blinked wearily. Being on that loading dock seemed like days ago, when it was only an hour before he’d wound up here . . . or centuries after, depending on how he thought about it. But this wasn’t the time to see what Jacob Rich had written. There were plenty of questions he needed answers to first.

  “I—well, um, I know this will sound crazy, but . . . could you tell me what year it is?” Greg stammered.

  Aramis laughed. “Why, 1615, of course! Were you struck on the head as you fled the soldiers?”

  1615! Greg did his best to hide his astonishment and tried to change the subject. “How is it that you live here in the cathedral? Are you studying to be a priest?”

  “A priest?” Aramis laughed again. “Do I look like nobility to you?”

  “I—I suppose not.”

  “My parents make and sell cloth in Paris. My older brother will inherit their business, so they bought me a position as a cleric here at our church.”

  “What’s that?”

  Aramis looked askance at Greg, as though wondering how anyone could be so ignorant. “You don’t know what a cleric does?”

  “We don’t have clerics where I come from.”

  “You must not have many books then.” Aramis pointed to the stack on his desk. “I translate those. Mostly from Latin to French, but sometimes from German and Hebrew as well.�
��

  “You can speak all those languages?”

  “The one benefit to being a cleric is you get to learn a lot. And the room has a good view of the city . . . if you don’t mind the leaking roof, the heat, the rats, or the bats.”

  “Do all clerics carry swords?”

  Aramis looked away, as though ashamed. “No. We’re not supposed to. But in this city, it never hurts to be prepared for anything.”

  “Is that what you were doing in the garden? Practicing?”

  “No. I was . . . well . . . looking for something.”

  “What?”

  Aramis leaned forward, barely speaking above a whisper. “Have you ever heard of Galileo Galilei?”

  “Of course. He’s the guy who discovered that the earth orbits the sun—”

  “What?” Aramis stared at Greg in shock. “You believe that? That the sun is the center of the universe? Even though the church condemns Galileo and his teachings?”

  Greg winced, fearing he’d made a big mistake. “Well . . . What do you believe?”

  Aramis paused. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted, sounding sheepish. “The idea that God didn’t put our earth at the center of everything seems so wrong, and yet . . . My eyes indicate Galileo was right.” He pulled something else from the folds of his cloak: a rudimentary telescope, a simple brass tube with a polished glass lens at each end.

  “Did you make that?” Greg asked.

  “No, a friend did. I’ve been looking at the planets every night for a month, and everything Galileo said was true. Saturn does have rings. And there are definitely moons orbiting Jupiter. Have you ever seen them?”

  “Sure. We used to have a telescope at our house. You could even see Uranus with it.”

  “What’s Uranus?”

  “The seventh planet . . .” The words had tumbled out of Greg’s mouth before he could catch himself.

  “Seventh planet?” Aramis frowned once again. “There are only seven: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, and the moon.”