by Stuart Gibbs
“Get help from the one person more powerful than Richelieu. The king.”
“But the king trusts him,” Greg said. “He practically handed us over to Richelieu today.”
“Then we’ll have to convince him of the truth,” Aramis answered firmly. “You said we become Musketeers, and that the Musketeers are the king’s private force. So he must trust us eventually.”
“But that’s in a version of history that may have changed—”
“Whatever the case, Louis XIII is our only hope,” Aramis said.
Greg scratched his head through his matted curls. What he would give for a bath, or a shower, or even five minutes alone just to think. “We’ll never be able to get to him again. We got lucky getting into the Louvre once. This time, Richelieu will be ready for us. The entire king’s guard will know who we are. Going back into the palace would be suicide.”
“That’s why we’re not going back into the palace. We need an emissary.”
Greg realized who Aramis meant. “Milady? But she’s working with Richelieu, too! She had a secret meeting with him tonight.”
“That doesn’t mean she wanted to meet with him. She probably had no choice in the matter.”
Greg chewed his lip. “Aramis,” he said gently. “You don’t know that.”
“I do!” Aramis snapped. “If she’d wanted to betray us before, she would have led us directly to Richelieu. Instead, she brought us to the king. She helped us then and she’ll help us now. We can trust her.” Aramis quickly gathered his cloak, then strode past Greg down the stairs. “I’m going to find her,” he huffed. “If you think it’s a bad idea, you’re welcome to wait here until I get back.”
Aware he’d struck a nerve, Greg ran after Aramis.
It was still dark when they exited the house, though it wouldn’t be for long. The sun would be rising within the hour. To Greg’s surprise, Aramis headed in the opposite direction of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
“We don’t know if she’s coming back into the city that way, but we definitely know where she’s going: the palace,” Aramis explained. “She’s the queen’s handmaiden. Even though the queen hasn’t moved in yet, Milady has. All servants live at the palace. She’ll need to be back before the sun rises. Otherwise, her absence will be noted, which would defeat the entire purpose of a clandestine mission. Let’s be quick. We have no time to lose!”
Together, they raced through the predawn streets toward the Louvre. A thick fog had crept up the Seine into the city, shrouding everything in a gloomy mist. As the boys approached the Pont Neuf, they spotted a cloaked figure, scurrying toward the Tuileries.
“Milady!” Greg shouted.
The figure froze. It was Milady. Then she began to sprint. The boys ran after her as fast as they could. Their footsteps rang out on the bridge. In the quiet city, they might as well have set off a string of firecrackers.
“Wait!” Aramis called out. “We mean you no harm!”
Milady hesitated on the far bank, peering into the fog, as though she’d recognized Aramis’s voice. But at that very moment, someone lunged from the alley behind her and yanked her into it.
“Milady!” Aramis yelled again. He charged headlong toward the alley.
Bad idea, Greg thought, but knew he had no choice except to chase after his friend. As Greg rounded the corner, he spotted a large man in a cloak trying to subdue Milady. Her cowl had fallen from her head, and the man’s hand was clapped over her mouth. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the boys.
No, Greg realized. Not at them. She was looking past him.
He spun around—but not quickly enough.
A second assailant grabbed him from behind. Greg tried to struggle, but immediately felt the cool steel of a blade placed against his neck.
“We’re taking the girl,” his attacker hissed. “Try to stop us and you die.”
Chapter Twenty-One
GREG FROZE IN FEAR WITH THE BLADE TO HIS NECK, BUT Aramis sprang into action. He snatched a long shaft of splintered wood from a pile of garbage and cocked it over his shoulder like a club. “Lay one finger on either one of those people and I’ll cave your heads in.”
The person holding Greg gave a gasp of surprise. “Aramis?”
The blade fell from Greg’s neck and his attacker stepped from the shadows, revealing his face.
“Athos!” Greg and Aramis exclaimed at once.
The big figure holding Milady pulled back his cowl, revealing himself to be Porthos. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant coincidence? Didn’t mean to frighten you there. You caught us by surprise.”
Greg felt a surge of joy. “You’re both alive! We thought Richelieu might have come after you.”
“He did,” Athos said.
“How did you escape?” Greg asked.
“I knew he was coming. Remember, I was keeping an eye on him.” Athos then pointed to Milady. “After she left, he stayed in the church, waiting . . . until another man came to meet him there. And you’ll never guess who it was.”
“His twin,” Aramis said.
Athos was stunned. “How did you know?”
“We’ve been doing some investigating ourselves tonight,” Aramis replied.
“So you know they’re plotting together,” Athos went on. “I watched them hatch a plan in the church. I couldn’t hear it then, but it became evident after they left. Each went a separate way, and I chose to follow the one I’d originally been watching. He went directly to the Bastille gate and rounded up the guards. I imagine he told them we had infiltrated the palace that day to assassinate the king. Then he led a party to Porthos’s castle so he could kill us in our sleep. Luckily, I deduced where they were heading and rode ahead to get Porthos out before they arrived.”
“Not that I couldn’t have handled them anyhow,” Porthos said, flexing his muscles. Milady rolled her eyes.
“As far as we know, he’s still out there, tearing Porthos’s residence apart looking for us,” Athos said. “There were too many soldiers around for us to get to him, so we had the idea to come here and interrogate his accomplice instead.”
“I’m not his accomplice!” Milady snapped.
“Don’t lie to me,” Athos said sternly. “We saw you with him at the church.”
“I had no choice,” Milady scoffed. “You have no idea what’s going on.”
Before Athos could argue, Aramis leaped in to defend her. “She’s right. We don’t. And as I told D’Artagnan, the fact that she was doing his bidding doesn’t mean that she’s his accomplice.”
“Really?” Athos snorted. “I’d say that doing someone’s bidding is the definition of being an accomplice.”
“Richelieu is a powerful man,” Aramis shot back. “She’s only a handmaiden. Do you really think she can simply say no to him? Even if she does serve the queen—”
“Shh,” Greg interrupted. “We don’t want to wake the whole city. We all agree that Milady is worth talking to. And it seems that she wants to tell her side of the story. So let’s go someplace quiet to talk to her. Then she can explain everything. How does that sound?”
Aramis and Athos didn’t respond right away. They glared at each other.
“I think that’s a great idea!” Porthos interjected. “There’s a nice quiet church nearby. My family founded it, so they’ll take care of us—”
“Hold on a second!” Milady cried. “Don’t I get a say in any of this?”
“I’m afraid not,” Porthos replied. “Seeing as you’re possibly in cahoots with an arch-villain who may very well have destroyed my property.”
Milady started to argue, but he slapped a hand over her mouth. She squirmed against him and tried to scream.
Porthos frowned at the others. “Can you give me a hand, if you please?”
As wrong as it felt to kidnap a girl, Greg joined the others in hustling Milady through the city. By the time they reached the church, dawn was brightening the eastern sky. Birds had begun chirping. The sounds of crowing roosters echoed across the c
obblestones.
The church was locked, but Porthos knocked loudly. The priest in charge was already awake and came quickly. He was a bald man who looked to be in his forties—as portly and ruddy as Porthos himself. He gasped in surprise.
“Sorry to bother you so early, Father,” Porthos said. “But I was wondering if we could use the chapel?”
The priest’s eyes flickered between Porthos and Milady. “Do you need me to perform a wedding, my lord?”
Porthos laughed. “Uh, no. She’s just a friend. We need someplace quiet to talk.”
The priest was obviously disappointed. While he seemed extremely curious about what was going on, he asked no questions, instead bowing deferentially. He ushered everyone into the chapel and closed the door behind him, leaving them alone.
Milady finally shook free of their collective grasp. “Keep your hands off me from now on,” she warned.
“Fine,” Greg said, stepping in front of Athos. “Then just tell us: What was the message Richelieu gave you?”
“How should I know?” Milady said. “It was sealed, so I couldn’t read it.”
“You don’t have to read something to know what it’s about,” Athos replied. “He might have told you.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“Whom did you deliver it to?” Athos asked.
“I don’t know that either,” Milady answered.
“Oh come now!” Athos exploded. “You must have at least seen the person!”
“True, but I merely delivered the letter to another messenger. I do not know who he represented.”
“Where did you meet him?” Greg asked.
“South of the city,” Milady replied. “There is a small inn on the road. I didn’t even go inside. He was waiting for me by the stables. I merely handed him the message, turned around, and rode back.”
Porthos stepped forward. “What else?”
“Well . . . He did have a strange accent,” Milady said, her eyes flickering toward Greg. “Kind of like yours. But it wasn’t the same.”
Greg swallowed. “How do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” Milady admitted. “I’ve never heard anyone speak like that before. The best I can say is: He wasn’t French.”
Athos, Aramis, and Porthos shared a look of concern. France wasn’t currently at war with any neighboring countries, but Greg knew enough medieval history to recognize that any existing peace was always fragile and short-lived.
“And the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés?” Aramis asked. “What part do they play in this?”
“The same as I do, I believe.” Milady spoke to Aramis in a far less defiant tone than she had used with the others. “Richelieu demanded that they help, so they helped. I don’t think they have any agenda other than protecting themselves from his wrath. He sent me there and a friar was waiting. The friar gave me a horse and opened the gate. When I returned, he stabled the horse and let me back into the city.”
A rooster crowed close by, perhaps from the church’s own courtyard.
Milady’s expression grew worried. “I need to get back. If I am not in the palace by sunrise, people will notice my absence.”
“You have bigger problems than that right now,” Athos stated.
“That is your problem,” Milady replied. “You want my help? Well, I won’t be any help to you if I’ve been booted out of the palace.”
“She’s right,” Aramis said.
Without a word, Porthos retreated to the rear of the church and waved the others toward him, leaving Milady alone to stew in the front pew.
“I still don’t trust her,” Athos whispered. “I think she knows far more than she’s letting on.”
“I don’t agree,” Aramis countered.
“Your opinion doesn’t count,” Athos hissed. “You’re biased toward her because you’re smitten with her.”
“And you’re biased against her because she likes me and not you,” Aramis shot back.
Athos’s eyes flashed with anger. The rooster crowed again.
“Guys! Please! We’re running out of time!” Greg pointed to the east, where the sky was turning pink.
“I apologize, Athos,” Aramis offered. “I am tired. And I don’t see that we have any choice but to trust her. She’s our only way to get to the king, and this is our last chance to see her outside the palace.”
“For all we know, she’ll go right to Richelieu!” Athos argued.
“Then let’s let her do it,” Greg heard himself say.
The other boys turned to him, startled. Greg didn’t blame them; he was surprised as well. But an idea had just come to him, and he couldn’t keep it to himself.
“What are you talking about?” Porthos asked.
“If our greatest fear is that she’ll go to Richelieu with any information we give her, then let’s use that to our advantage. Let’s give her something to tell him.” Greg didn’t bother to explain himself; he was too worried he’d lose his confidence—however crazy it was. He led the others down the narrow aisle to the front of the chapel and addressed Milady. “Richelieu will come find you today, won’t he? To see how your mission went last night?”
Milady stared down at her feet. “I suppose so.”
“When he does, tell him we intend to attack La Mort at midnight.”
“What?” Milady exclaimed, returning his gaze.
Aramis pulled Greg aside. “Are you insane?” he whispered. “Why would you want Richelieu to know that?”
Greg managed a smile. “Because it’s the only way to save my parents’ lives.”
PART THREE
THE PRISON
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE STARS SHONE BRIGHTLY OVERHEAD AS GREG approached the Seine with Aramis by his side. Athos and Porthos waited high on the riverbank behind, wary of the water. The moon had yet to rise, and Greg had expected it to be dark. The whole time he’d been in medieval France, the night had always seemed incredibly dark to him, especially compared to the light-polluted cities he was used to. But now that he needed to move under the cover of darkness . . . he could see everything.
He’d never really looked at the night sky without light pollution. There was almost nowhere left in the modern world (other than the middle of the ocean) to see it with such vivid clarity. He’d seen the Milky Way only once or twice in his life, on camping trips. Even then it had only been a diluted pale streak. Now it was a huge, gleaming slash. Once the moon was up, it would be like a spotlight.
Greg’s hands began to tremble. La Mort stood in the starlight a quarter mile downstream. Was this really such a brilliant idea? A hundred things could go wrong. All it’d take would be a sentry on the parapet to glance down at the water and spot the telltale ripples of him swimming by—and the entire plan would be ruined. The soldiers would pincushion him with arrows; the other boys would call off the attack . . . and the next morning, his parents would both swing from the gallows.
But if he didn’t even try to swim, his parents would die for sure.
“You have the matches?” Aramis asked, for what seemed like the hundredth time. He sounded even more nervous than Greg, if that were possible.
Still, Greg checked once again, clutching the satchel Porthos had procured for him: two pieces of leather stitched together tightly so as to be waterproof. Though if water did manage to seep through, the matches were also wrapped in a protective oilskin. The architectural plans of La Mort were in there, too. So were his shoes. He couldn’t swim with them, and he’d need dry ones to scale the wall. Sadly, there wasn’t enough room to bring a whole set of dry clothes—although he wouldn’t really have the time to change into them anyhow.
“I’ve got the matches,” Greg confirmed.
Aramis hadn’t told the others about Greg’s miraculous fire-making tools, because explaining where they’d come from might open up a whole new range of questions. And neither Greg nor Aramis felt able to explain any more without ultimately spilling the beans as to where—and when—Greg was really from.
In fact, they’d decided not to tell the other two anything they’d learned from the diary: that Dinicoeur was Richelieu, that he’d attained immortality, that he’d returned through time to seek revenge on the boys for deeds they hadn’t even done yet. Making an assault on La Mort was nerve-racking enough. Athos and Porthos didn’t need to know they were going up against an immortal sorcerer as well. Their confidence in their abilities was a strength that Greg and Aramis couldn’t afford to undermine.
Greg checked his watch. It was time.
He looked past Aramis, to where Athos and Porthos stood on the riverbank. “Now or never,” he said.
“Wait!” Porthos called. He hurried to the water’s edge. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
“That’s a first,” Athos muttered.
Greg laughed in spite of himself. So did Aramis.
Porthos snickered as well. “Maybe so. I know we’ve had our differences, but listen. We’re a team now, right? We all have one another’s back.”
Aramis glanced at Athos sheepishly, as though embarrassed. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Then it seems we should have an oath of some sort,” Porthos went on. “A bond we swear to one another, to seal our friendship. We often use them in the nobility. I remember one time in the Loire Valley—”
“Great idea.” Greg cut Porthos off before he could launch into a long story that would delay the whole attack. “How about this? All for one and one for all.”
The boys unanimously broke into smiles.
“That’s perfect,” Athos said. “I really like the sound of that.”
I thought you might, Greg answered silently. He stuck out his hand. The other boys all placed theirs on top of it.
“All for one and one for all,” they echoed.
Greg stepped into the river and started swimming.
Michel Dinicoeur paced the ramparts of La Mort, inspecting its defenses. Everything he saw confirmed what he’d believed all along: These boys were fools.
Attempting a prison rescue was a suicide mission. The Musketeers he knew—the ones who had thwarted him so long ago—had been different. They were older, wiser, cautious men. They wouldn’t have risked their lives for a lost cause. But these Musketeers were young, impetuous, and overconfident. They were teenagers.