by Stuart Gibbs
Greg got it. If you wanted to access the palace, you only needed to look the part and to carry an official-looking piece of paper. Porthos could provide it all.
Greg had been in such a hurry to escape the Louvre the last time he’d been there, he hadn’t really looked at the outside of it. Now, as he approached it with the other three boys on Porthos’s horses, what he saw astonished him.
The building was in the process of being converted from fortress to palace, with three stories of scaffolding running along the entire length. Stonemasons swarmed over it like ants; there seemed to be hundreds. The sound of all their hammers banging away at stone could be heard from half a mile away.
The main entrance to the palace was almost lost in the scaffolding. It was surprisingly unimpressive: a set of weathered wooden doors with a few crumbling stone steps leading up to them. The entrance to Porthos’s home was nicer. Two soldiers were posted near it, but neither was as attentive as Greg had expected. Both sat in the shade of the scaffolding, obviously bored. One polished his sword on his sleeve; the other appeared to be daydreaming. They didn’t appear much older than Greg.
And yet, they were still soldiers. Greg grew nervous as they came closer—and noticed Aramis did, too.
“This is never going to work,” the cleric said. “We’ll end up in La Mort all right, as prisoners ourselves.”
“Ye of little faith,” Porthos said with his usual cocky smile. “The more confident we appear, the less they’ll question us. Everything will be fine. Trust me.”
“Easy for you to say,” Athos grumbled. The plan required him to wear his usual militia uniform under the fine silks Porthos had lent him. He was dripping with sweat.
Greg, on the other hand, had never felt better in nobleman’s clothing. For the first time since he’d arrived in the past, he didn’t itch all over. Both he and Aramis were fully costumed in clothes raided from Porthos’s wardrobe. Porthos had even tucked a tiny sapphire in Greg’s linen glove “For when the time comes to bargain.”
“Porthos, wait,” Aramis cautioned. “If you’ve been here for parties, won’t they recognize you?”
“Do you know everyone who comes to Mass on Sundays at Notre Dame?” Porthos asked.
Aramis shook his head.
“Exactly,” Portos said. “Lots of people come to these parties. Every nobleman for miles around. No one knows who’s who. And besides, it’s been a few months since I’ve been here. I’ve grown a few inches since then.”
“Yeah, around your waist,” Athos muttered.
The soldiers at the main entrance snapped to attention when they saw the four horsemen nearing. Greg’s pulse picked up a notch.
“Who approaches the home of His Majesty King Louis XIII?” the first soldier called.
The four boys dismounted their horses, holding their heads high as if they were all nobility. Porthos marched up the steps and handed the soldier a false letter of introduction Aramis had written. “I am Lord Vincennes from Bordeaux, here to pay my respect to the king.”
The soldiers snapped the wax seal open and glanced at the paper.
Greg’s heart squeezed. The letter was upside down. But neither soldier noticed. Apparently, both were illiterate. They seemed impressed by the look of it, however.
“The king has done us great service in Bordeaux,” Porthos said. “My family wishes to offer our thanks with this gift.” He waved dramatically to Greg, who took the cue. He removed his glove and produced the sapphire.
The soldiers gaped at it with awe and then nodded approval. The second guard remained to mind the horses while the first ushered the four boys inside. Greg kept the sapphire clutched tightly in his fist.
“Is the king expecting you?” the guard asked as the boys followed him through the main hall.
“No,” Porthos replied. “I had other business in Paris and decided to drop by.”
“You probably won’t be able to see him, then,” the guard said. “The king is a very busy man. But one of his secretaries might be available to meet with you in his stead.”
Porthos nodded distantly. “That would be fine.”
Greg’s chest thumped as they marched up the wooden staircase he’d fled down two nights before. He tried not to glance up at the chandelier. At the landing, they turned in a different direction. In the rooms that lined this long hall, first attempts were under way at making the Louvre the beautiful building it would ultimately become. Craftsmen and painters were hard at work on a large salon; carpenters were laying down a new wood floor and sculpting decorations for the walls; glaziers were installing new windows. And painters were filling the ceiling with white clouds and cherubs.
The soldier paused in front of a massive double door and waved the foursome to a pair of upholstered benches. “Wait here, if you please. I’ll alert the king’s staff as to your presence.”
Porthos cleared his throat. “Before you go, my men and I have ridden a long way today and drunk much water. Is there a place for us to go . . . relieve ourselves?”
“There is a privy for guests to the right of the main stairs,” the soldier replied.
“Ah. I think we can find that,” Porthos said.
“Very well, sir.” The soldier exited with their letter of introduction, leaving them alone and unguarded.
The moment he was gone, the boys slipped back out the way they’d come.
“That ought to buy us at least a quarter hour,” Porthos said with a snicker.
Greg had to laugh, too. Porthos might have been the first person in history to ever think of the ruse of asking for the bathroom in order to escape. Porthos led the way back down the grand staircase, then through a long stretch of palace that was still unfinished—muddy and roughhewn. From the smell, it seemed they were close to the stables. Greg guessed he had run above this area two nights before.
They eventually passed another wide but rickety staircase and arrived in an empty hall. Athos signaled everyone to be on guard. Porthos nodded.
“What’s going on?” Greg asked.
“This is where the militia is headquartered,” Athos replied. He pointed toward the lone door at the end of the corridor. “Richelieu’s office is right over there.”
The door to Richelieu’s office wasn’t locked—there was no lock—and it was deserted. The office was large, with a wooden desk, a high-backed chair, and a long row of cabinets along the wall behind it. A framed map of Paris hung on the right wall, facing a framed map of France on the left. Unlike the office door, however, every drawer and cabinet was locked.
“This is going to take some time,” Greg said, sighing. “Looks like we’ll need a sentry.”
Athos nodded. He peeled off Porthos’s clothes, revealing his uniform. True, he’d been kicked out of the militia. But only his superior officer and the men in his unit knew what he looked like. To anyone else, he would simply appear to be a regular soldier. He slipped outside and posted himself in the hall, closing the door behind him.
Aramis studied the labels on the cabinets, written in a language neither Greg nor Porthos could understand. But Greg thought it looked like—
“Latin,” Aramis stated. “This top drawer holds information related to La Mort.”
“Stand back.” Porthos whipped out his sword and approached the credenza.
“What are you doing?” Greg asked, panicked.
Porthos didn’t answer. He jammed his sword through the narrow slit near the lock and placed his considerable weight on it. The wood splintered and the lock broke.
Aramis glared at Porthos. “You have no respect for others’ property?”
“Not when peoples’ lives hang in the balance,” Porthos muttered.
Greg opened the cabinet and began rifling through the stacks of parchment. The other boys helped, though it still took several minutes to go through it all. There was no map, only lists of those incarcerated . . . and, ominously, execution orders. Greg’s heart began to pound again. They had squandered precious time.
; “It’s not here,” Aramis said, disheartened. “Let’s get out while we can.” He started for the door.
Greg stayed rooted to the spot, however, his mind racing. Why wasn’t the map of La Mort in the drawer? Did it even exist? Had it been removed for some reason? Or were they just looking in the wrong place . . . ?
A thought suddenly came to him. “We’re looking for an architectural plan. Is there a cabinet for those?”
Aramis pointed at another drawer. “There!”
Porthos quickly thrust his sword into the narrow crack at the top of the drawer—and with a mighty grunt, snapped both the lock and his sword into pieces. He cursed under his breath. Greg, on the other hand, felt a surge of hope. Piled in the drawer were stacks of floor plans—exactly what they needed.
Greg and the others dug through them quickly, wantonly flinging the rejections aside. It seemed as though every building in Paris was represented.
There was an urgent knock at the door.
“We need to leave!” Athos hissed from the other side. “An entire squad is coming!”
Aramis and Porthos grabbed stacks of parchment, but Greg stayed put. He was almost through his pile, his fingers flying through the pages . . .
There! At the very bottom of his pile, Greg found a page filled with a jumble of passageways and the heading “Le Labyrinthe de La Mort Triste.”
“I’ve got it!” he yelled, holding it up triumphantly.
Athos threw the door open. “Move. Now!” he shouted.
Greg, Athos, and Porthos fled from the room to find a dozen soldiers coming down the hall toward them. Greg scrambled after the other boys, heading back toward the front door. As they passed the staircase, they spotted a second group of guards coming, cutting off their escape route.
“Upstairs!” Porthos shouted, leading the way.
As Greg followed, he noticed another massive, candle-laden chandelier hanging above—like the one he’d swung from on the other side of the Louvre.
“Athos!” he shouted, pointing to the support rope. “Cut that!”
Athos hurled his sword, slicing straight through it. The chandelier plummeted in a blaze of flame and smoke. The soldiers scattered as it smashed to the floor, blocking the stairs.
All three boys turned to Greg at the top of the stairwell, impressed.
“How’d you ever come up with that?” Aramis gasped.
“Where I come from . . . it’s kind of a cliché,” Greg admitted.
Below, the soldiers began to clamber over the smashed chandelier.
“C’mon,” Porthos said. He led the boys through a series of zigzagging passageways until he came to a small alcove. There he pressed a panel in the wall, and a hidden door slid open.
“How did you know about . . . ?” Aramis began.
“Like I said, I’ve been to parties here,” Porthos replied proudly. Then, hearing the sounds of soldiers charging through the halls, he hustled the boys inside and slammed the door behind them.
There was a chorus of high-pitched gasps.
The boys spun around to find a dozen teenage girls staring at them. Greg’s face grew hot. Aramis bowed his head.
Athos broke into a huge smile. “Now this is what I call a hiding place,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
GREG WASN’T AS TAKEN WITH THE GIRLS AS ATHOS AND Porthos. They all had matted hair and wore dull, shapeless frocks that looked a lot like burlap sacks. Probably servants. Instead, his eyes glazed over at the opulence of the huge bedroom: overstuffed couches and ottomans covered with silk pillows, a vanity with three huge mirrors, and an enormous canopy bed. The walls were painted with fairies and woodland scenes, and ornate vases overflowed with fresh flowers.
“We shouldn’t be in here,” Aramis whispered.
“On the contrary,” Athos said. “This is the perfect place for us to be.” He stepped forward and flashed a sly smile. “Good afternoon, my ladies. It’s a pleasure to meet you—” He broke off in midsentence, his jaw hanging open.
Another girl had entered from the far side of the room, decked out in a blue satin gown covered with lace and embroidered roses. But even if she had worn only a burlap frock, she would have captured everyone’s attention. Her skin was porcelain and spotless, her blond hair done up in an elaborate bun. But most striking of all were her riveting blue eyes. Greg guessed she was about sixteen. “How dare you enter the queen’s chambers!” she barked.
Porthos chuckled, the only one of the four boys who was unfazed. “I wasn’t aware we had a queen,” he replied.
“Then you are more foolish than you look. The whole world knows that Anne of Austria is betrothed to Louis. These will be her private chambers once they are wed, and no man is to step foot in them. Not even His Majesty King Louis himself! Now leave at once—or I shall call upon our soldiers to remove you by force.”
Uh-oh. As she spoke, Greg heard approaching footsteps in the hall outside. Before either Porthos or Athos could utter another word, Greg leaped forward.
“We are terribly sorry to intrude, madamoiselle,” he apologized. “But we are here at risk to our own lives to deliver a message of great importance to the queen.”
The girl shifted her cold gaze to Greg. “I am to be the queen’s handmaiden. Any message delivered to me will get to her. What is it?”
Greg’s mind whirled, making up the excuse as he went along. “There is a plot against her. Unfortunately, there are many in the king’s own guard who may be involved. They cannot know we are here. You must trust us.”
At that moment, the soldiers pounded on the true door to the room. “Open up in there!” a familiar voice demanded. “This is the king’s guard.”
That voice! It belonged to Valois. Greg’s blood ran cold.
The girl studied the boys carefully, her gaze flickering as she paused on Aramis. His face was still beet red. His eyes remained pinned to the floor. A smile curled on the girl’s lips. For the briefest moment, it seemed her pale face had softened. But just as quickly, she whirled and snapped her fingers at them. “Step behind the drapes,” she hissed.
The boys quickly obeyed, ducking behind a suffocating wall of thick velvet. Once they were hidden from sight, the girl opened the door to face Valois and his men. Greg held his breath.
“What brings this intrusion to the queen’s quarters?” she demanded.
“We apologize for the imposition, mademoiselle,” Valois answered in a formal tone. “We seek some boys who have infiltrated the palace. They have stolen some valuable documents, and we believe they may have come this way.”
“Well, I have not seen any boys,” the girl answered. “None of us have. And we have been here all morning.”
“If you could allow us to quickly search . . .” Valois started over the threshold, but the girl held her ground.
“The king himself has not set foot in this room,” she stated. “Do you think he would appreciate the news that you have?”
There was a long moment of silence. Greg exchanged a silent glance with the other boys. Nobody moved. Porthos was smiling, however, as if having a blast.
Valois cleared his throat. “This is a matter of great importance—”
“As is the sanctity of these chambers,” the girl interrupted. “I can assure you the boys you seek are not here.”
“Then I ask for your pardon, mademoiselle,” Valois grumbled. There was a scuffle of footsteps as he retreated into the hall, and the door slammed behind him. Greg heaved a huge sigh of relief. For the second time, Valois had been headed off at the gate.
The girl stormed back across the room and flung the drapes aside. “You have exactly one minute to explain to me this plot against the queen. If I don’t like what I hear, I’ll call back the royal guard and you’ll be sent to the gallows before sunset.”
“It, um, it’s actually quite simple,” Greg began.
“I’m not asking you. I’m asking him.” The girl pointed to Aramis. She flashed a wicked smile. “I have a feeling he’s the most
honest of you.”
Porthos winced. “Now we’re in trouble,” he muttered.
Aramis stared into the girl’s blue eyes. “Uh, well—you see—the truth is—there is no plot against the queen,” he admitted.
Porthos, Athos, and Greg all groaned at the same time.
“Ah! I suspected as much.” The girl frowned and strode for the door.
“Wait, we beg of you!” Aramis pleaded. “We are sorry to trespass. But the lives of two innocent people are at stake.”
The girl stopped. Her eyes narrowed. Once again, she studied Aramis, as though trying to determine if she could trust him. “Then you had better explain yourself.”
Aramis pointed to Greg. “This is D’Artagnan. Two nights ago, his parents were unfairly condemned to death by a man in the palace named Michel Dinicoeur.”
“I have never heard of any man here with that name,” the girl said.
“Neither has anyone else,” Greg cut in. “However, I can assure you he exists. I’ve met him. And because of him, my parents are scheduled for execution the day after tomorrow. We are on a mission to save them.”
“By breaking into the palace?” the girl asked. “How does that help anyone?”
“Well,” Greg said, swallowing. “We, um, needed, to—”
“To petition His Majesty King Louis,” Aramis finished. “He’s the only one who can stop an execution.”
The girl shifted her gaze. “So you came to see him yourselves, is that right?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Porthos replied cheerily.
Greg elbowed him in the side, but fortunately, Athos spoke up. “We felt it was worth the risk to our lives to save those of two innocent people.” He smiled dramatically at the other girls in the room. Several smiled back.
The queen’s handmaiden arched a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “I see. What you have all done is either very brave . . . or very stupid.”
“We were hoping for brave,” Greg admitted. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “Mademoiselle, I don’t suppose that you—as the future queen’s handmaiden—would have access to the king?”