by Stuart Gibbs
“Who is she?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have a long night ahead of us,” Greg pointed out.
“No, we don’t.” Looking past Greg, Athos dropped his makeshift fishing pole into the water and leaped to his feet. “Richelieu is on the move!”
Greg followed Athos’s eyes. Sure enough, Richelieu had emerged from the palace. Greg had only a moment to glimpse the man’s demonic face before he pulled a cowl over his head. Instead of his formal uniform, he wore a dark cloak, like that of a monk. He moved stealthily, avoiding pockets of torchlight, as though trying not to draw attention.
“Wearing a disguise? He’s definitely up to something,” Athos whispered.
Neither Greg nor Athos uttered another peep as they trailed Richelieu through the narrow, twisting streets. Richelieu seemed to be on his guard, but it wasn’t hard for the boys to stick to the shadows and go unnoticed. Eventually he reached a tiny church in a dark alley. It was nowhere near as grand as Notre Dame. Greg might have mistaken the place for a peasant’s home had it not been for the large cross over the entrance.
Richelieu passed through the wooden doors, which creaked loudly. Greg frowned. There was no way the boys could follow without making an equally loud noise. Athos jerked his head toward the stained-glass window on the side. One of the panes was broken. They tiptoed up to it and peered inside.
Inside, Richelieu felt comfortable enough to drop his cowl. The church was empty except for a lone monk, who knelt at the small altar in prayer. Richelieu approached, lit a candle, and kneeled beside him. The monk turned. In the light from Richelieu’s candle, the boys caught a glimpse of a profile under the heavy black hood.
Both gasped in surprise.
The monk wasn’t a monk at all . . . or even a man.
It was Milady de Winter.
Chapter Sixteen
GREG STRAINED HIS EARS TO CATCH EVEN A WISP OF WHAT Richelieu and Milady were saying. But their voices were too hushed. He could only wait. . . .
The conversation lasted less than two minutes. At the end, Richelieu handed Milady a piece of paper that she tucked beneath her cloak. Greg thought he caught a glimpse of a formal wax seal. She stood and headed for the door.
“Follow her!” Athos hissed. “I’ll stay on Richelieu.”
“You don’t want to follow her?” Greg asked, baffled.
“Richelieu knows you and wants you dead. And I would guess that he’s far more dangerous than she is. I can handle him. I doubt you can.”
That made sense—and besides, there was no time to debate. Greg scurried after Milady, careful to maintain a distance of at least half a block between them. She moved furtively, glancing over her shoulder and pausing every now and then, as if to listen for footsteps. Greg froze when she did, falling into a rhythm. Milady crossed the Seine by way of the Île de la Cité—avoiding the lively Pont Neuf—then quickly cut through the southern part of Paris toward a low-walled compound.
As far as Greg could tell from his distant vantage point, it was almost like a city within a city. He even thought he heard the cluck of chickens and bray of horses on the other side, as if there were a farm inside. Milady cased the street one last time to make sure she was alone, then knocked on a small wooden door. Someone opened it immediately, as though they’d been waiting for her. Once the door closed, Greg heard a bolt slide and click on the other side, locking it tight.
So . . . he wouldn’t be following her that way. Fortunately, the stone was rough enough that, with his rock-climbing skills, he could scale it. Besides, the walls didn’t seem built for defense so much as to provide solitude. It wasn’t a difficult climb, maybe twenty feet or so. In less than half a minute, Greg reached the top and peered into the compound.
As he’d surmised, there was a small farm: pigsties, chicken coops, stables, and goat pens—as well as a large vegetable garden and several fruit trees. On the far side, right next to the city wall, was a plain white tower, virtually unornamented except for a few stained-glass windows. Though that might not mean it was a church. Greg knew that stained glass was a lot easier to make than clear glass, and a lot sturdier as well. Surprisingly, the compound had its own gate in the city wall itself, one that didn’t appear to be controlled by the king’s soldiers.
At that moment, its portcullis was being winched open by someone in a cloak.
At first, Greg assumed it was Milady, but when he caught a glimpse of beard, he realized that he was looking at an actual monk. Aha. This place was probably a monastery. He inched up farther, preparing to swing his legs over the top of the wall, when the clatter of hooves caught his attention. A horse charged out of the stable, a cloaked figure astride it. Greg couldn’t see the face, but given that slight build, he was sure it had to be Milady. The horse thundered across the compound, through the gate, and into the countryside beyond.
The monk quickly winched the portcullis shut and locked it.
Greg slithered back down the wall, dejected. There was no way he could have followed Milady without a horse. Still, he’d failed. He had a zillion unanswered questions. What was Milady doing for Richelieu? Who were these monks? And if Richelieu was up to no good, why were they working with him? Hopefully Athos was having better luck.
All at once, a very disturbing thought occurred to Greg.
He had no idea how to get in touch with Athos.
They’d never considered that they might split up, so they’d never made a plan about what to do if that happened. Back in modern times, Greg never gave much thought to getting in touch with people because everyone had a phone.
So think like someone in 1615, Greg told himself. Athos would eventually head back out to Porthos’s family estate, right? Of course he would. Except the idea of making that long journey now—late at night, exhausted and alone—without Athos to protect him against thieves or wild animals or whatever else . . . no way. Notre Dame was far closer. Greg could see the towers less than a mile away. Better to take his chances and sneak back into Aramis’s garret, and then return to Porthos’s residence at sunrise.
As Greg cut back through the city, his gloomy mood grew worse. It was the first time he’d been alone since he’d met Aramis. In addition to being scared, he was overcome with guilt. His parents were still locked in La Mort, having no idea what had happened to him or that he was planning to rescue them. All they knew was that they were condemned to death in less than two days’ time. Time was running out.
Worst of all, Greg couldn’t help but doubt himself. He’d been lucky to make allies—he couldn’t discount that—but of all the boys, he was by far the weakest link. Aramis had the brains. Athos had the skills. Porthos had guile and confidence. Greg brought nothing to the table. He was clueless about how to navigate medieval France without the help of the others. If anything, he was probably a threat to the mission of rescuing his parents.
By the time he reached Notre Dame, he felt useless and miserable.
The wall around the cathedral garden was even easier to scale than the wall of the monastery. Once inside, Greg remembered how to get to Aramis’s room, though he proceeded slowly. The ancient wooden floorboards threatened to squeak with every step. How could he explain himself if he woke the clergy who lived here? He finally made it up to the garret—and, sagging, pushed open the door. In the moonlight, he could see his original clothes still folded neatly where he’d left them. . . .
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.
Greg whirled around as his attacker sprang from the shadows. Reflexively, he crouched: shoulder cocked, feet braced. Something hard thumped Greg on the head. He winced in pain as he and his assailant tumbled to the floor. Greg rolled away and hopped to his feet, slightly dizzy. He was about to pounce when his opponent slipped into a shaft of moonlight. “Aramis?” Greg gasped.
“D’Artagnan? Is that you?” Aramis dropped the thick book he’d used as a weapon, embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”
“It was too late to
go back to Porthos’s place,” Greg explained. His adrenaline had spiked and his heart was still racing. “Why aren’t you there?”
“Porthos and I were working on the plan, but we realized we needed to take another look at La Mort.” Aramis stared at the floor. “And once we’d ridden all the way back this way, I thought I ought to come back here for the night. I need to show myself around here tomorrow so the priests don’t start wondering what I’m up to.”
Greg’s breathing began to slow. “Then why’d you attack me?”
Aramis looked up. “No one ever comes up here. And no one in the cathedral is ever up this late. So when I heard you coming up the stairs, I thought it was an intruder. We’ve earned our share of enemies lately.” He pursed his lips. “Where’s Athos?”
“We had to split up. He was following Richelieu and I—”
“Wait!” Aramis interrupted, his eyes widening in confusion. “Athos was following Richelieu?”
“Yes. Why? That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
Aramis began to pace the room. “Yes, but . . . When was Athos following him?”
“Well, we both were, to begin with. We saw him leave the Louvre about two hours after the sun went down—”
“No, that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
Aramis stopped pacing and met Greg’s gaze. “Because I saw Richelieu at La Mort at the exact same time.”
Chapter Seventeen
“THAT CAN’T BE,” GREG SAID. “YOU MUST HAVE THE TIME wrong.”
“I don’t,” Aramis replied, flopping into the straw bed. “Porthos and I decided to go to La Mort shortly after you and Athos left. We arrived there right at sunset and stayed for several hours. We were just about to leave when we saw a boat departing from the prison, so we stayed hidden until after it docked on the shore. Richelieu was on that boat. Which means that he’d been inside La Mort the entire time we were watching. So there’s no way you and Athos could have seen him at the Louvre at that time. Unless there’s a secret passage from the prison to the mainland. But even then, it wouldn’t make sense.”
Greg nodded, exhausted. “You’re right. Unless Richelieu has a twin.” The words popped out of his mouth before he’d even had a chance to think about what he was saying. But a thought began to dawn on him. . . .
“Impossible,” Aramis replied. “The only brother Dominic Richelieu has is the cardinal, and they don’t look a thing a like.”
All of a sudden, Greg was wide awake again. “Can you be sure, though?”
Aramis blinked. “That family couldn’t have kept a twin a secret. They’re too closely connected to the monarchy.”
“Then maybe they had the king’s help,” Greg said. “Because Michel Dinicoeur doesn’t have a right hand, and Dominic Richelieu does. They’re two different people!”
Aramis’s eyes went wide. “Michel Dinicoeur is missing a hand? Why didn’t you tell us that before?”
“Because it sounded crazy,” Greg admitted. “But now, everything makes sense.” He hesitated. “Well, a little more sense, at least. . . .”
“D’Artagnan, tell me,” Aramis said. “What did you observe Richelieu—or Dinicoeur—doing tonight?”
Greg related the details of his evening, how he and Athos had trailed Richelieu to a church, then how they’d split up when they’d spotted him connecting with Milady, and how he’d tailed Milady to the southern part of town. Aramis’s eyes clouded at the mention of Milady’s name, but he said nothing. When Greg began to describe the monastery, however, Aramis sat up excitedly.
“Wait!” he interrupted. “That’s the Abbey of Saint- Germain-des-Prés!”
Greg paused. He knew the name from his own time. Saint-Germain was one of the most famous neighborhoods in modern Paris. Back before everything had gone wrong, his parents had been planning a trip there—in the twenty-first century, Saint-Germain was more famous for its cafés and shopping than its religious roots.
“Is it . . . I’m not sure how to ask this,” Greg began. “Does the abbey answer to the king? It looks like a city within the city, and it has its own entrance in the wall.”
“You’re sharp, D’Artagnan,” Aramis replied. “The abbey has been around for over a thousand years, so it’s older than most of Paris. Saint-Germain lives by its own laws. It owns a great many fields outside the city, and it maintains its own port of entry.”
Greg nodded. It made sense: des prés meant “of the meadows” in French. Funny: He’d wondered why such an urban neighborhood, smack in the middle of Paris, would have such an incongruous name. “I guess the next question would be: Is the abbey friendly with the king?”
Aramis brushed a hand through his stringy hair. “I’d always thought so. But now, I wonder. If Richelieu wanted Milady to do something for Louis, he would have just sent her from the Louvre. But why would he ask a handmaiden to do anything for him, unless it was something he’d prefer to keep hidden?”
Greg’s thoughts raced but ended up down a bunch of blind alleys. He had no idea what Milady could have been doing. He rubbed his bleary eyes and suddenly noticed how grubby his hands were. Yuck. He would do anything for a bath—or even a sink. And Notre Dame was supposed to have the height of modern plumbing. . . . Thinking about the cathedral, an idea struck him. “Do you think she’s on a mission for the church?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to think.” Aramis sighed. “Unlike his brother, the cardinal, Dominic Richelieu has never seemed to be a man of God to me. And yet, here he is, in league with Saint-Germain and Milady de Winter. I can’t imagine she’d be up to anything untoward. Not without being forced into it, at least.”
Greg wasn’t so sure. Richelieu hadn’t threatened Milady in any way—at least not as far as Greg could tell. He decided not to argue the point, however. Aramis clearly had his own opinions of Milady, and Greg had a hunch he wouldn’t be able to change them. “Did you see Richelieu—or Dinicoeur—do anything at La Mort?” he asked.
Aramis shook his head. “No. We saw him leave the prison and get in a carriage. It seemed to be headed toward the city.”
Greg chewed his lip. “Did you learn anything about the prison?”
“I’m sorry, D’Artagnan.” Aramis drew in a quavering breath. “About rescuing your parents . . . you see, we do have some ideas about what to do once we’re inside. It’s getting to the prison itself that’s impossible. You might be able to swim, but the rest of us still have to reach the island as well. Even if we could somehow find a boat, there’d be no way to approach without the guards spotting us. Even at night, they’d see us coming.”
Greg tried to picture the prison in his mind. It was far from shore, but not that far. “What if I swam out first?” Greg asked. “Perhaps I could divert the guards until you arrived.”
Aramis laughed in response. “Sure. You could tell them you’re there, and then while they hacked you to pieces, we could row across. There are a dozen guards posted there at any time. There’s no way you could stay alive as long as they knew you were there . . .” Aramis trailed off, suddenly lost in thought.
“What is it?” Greg asked.
Aramis ran to his rickety desk, pulled out the architectural plans of La Mort they’d stolen, and laid them out in the moonlight. He pointed to a small alcove just inside the gate. “According to Porthos, there’s a stockpile of gunpowder here. If you could ignite that, we’d have our diversion. In fact, you might even be able to take out the entire gate itself with the explosion. But, no.” He clucked his tongue and tapped his finger on the plans. “You’d have to be able to scale the wall.”
“I can do that,” Greg said enthusiastically.
“You and your tall tales!” Aramis snorted. “How? It’s solid rock.”
“If it’s anything like the wall here, or at Saint-Germain, I can climb it. I’ve scaled both tonight. Remember how we met?”
Aramis laughed. “Right. You can swim and climb walls of rock. I don’t suppose you can conjure fire from thin air, as well?”
Greg found himself laughing, too. The exhaustion was making them both a little punchy. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s say you perform all the miracles you say you can.” Aramis pointed once again at the architectural plans. “You’d need something to ignite the stockpile. And though you can swim the river and scale the wall, I doubt you can do so with a lit torch.”
“No. But I could use this.” Greg leaped across the room to his pile of clothes and fished through the pockets of his shorts. Yes! There it was: the matchbook from the Jules Verne restaurant he’d picked up at his first meal in Paris. Better yet, there were fifty matches inside. He could definitely spare one for a demonstration.
“What in heaven’s name . . . ?”Aramis began.
Greg responded by striking a match against the matchbook.
Aramis recoiled in surprise as it exploded in a tiny flame. But then his face burst into a wide, fascinated smile. “This is incredible! How does it work?”
“Uh . . . I have no idea,” Greg admitted. “But if we wrap these matches in something waterproof while I swim over, I can set anything you need on fire.” He touched the lit match to a candlewick, illuminating the room.
Aramis laughed. “D’Artagnan! This is unbelievable! You can swim, climb walls, and make flames. I think, thanks to you, we may save your parents yet!”
Greg found himself beaming. Maybe he wasn’t such a liability, after all. He might have stuck out like a proverbial sore thumb in 1615, but it seemed he did have some useful talents, after all.
Despite the late hour, Aramis was now revved up with excitement. All at once, his eyes zeroed in on the rumpled clothing across the room. In his haste to find the matches, Greg had absently yanked his great-great-grandfather’s diary out of the pants pocket and tossed it on top of the pile.
“What is that?” Aramis asked.
“Nothing,” Greg said quickly. “Just a book.”
Aramis snatched it up before Greg could. “Just a book? The handiwork here is so impressive!” He fanned the pages. “This paper is of high quality. And this binding . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. The pages aren’t tied on, but are attached with some sort of adhesive. Am I right?”