The Last Musketeer

  Ever since Dominic Richelieu had informed his future self that the boys were already in league with Greg Rich, Dinicoeur had foreseen everything they’d done. It was a joy consorting with his younger self . . . the incarnation who knew nothing of what could be in store for eternity. Hopefully only great things. And they thought alike, naturally: Both had predicted the boys would attack La Mort. Dinicoeur just hadn’t expected the boys would be so moronic about it. No matter. Their escape at Porthos’s home last night now seemed like a trivial inconvenience. Thanks to the duplicitous girl, Milady, they’d sealed their own fate. They’d been fool enough to trust her with the time they would attack. And she’d gone straight to Dinicoeur with the information.

  So now, all he had to do was have his soldiers prepped and ready at midnight. He smiled down the parapet at the surprise he’d prepared for the Musketeers in the northern turret: a cannon.

  That certainly hadn’t been in the plans they’d stolen.

  It wasn’t a huge gun. But it was big enough to do what was needed. The boys had no choice but to come by boat—and once in range, he’d blast them out of the water. And if, by some miracle, they got past the cannon, his soldiers would be waiting. Forty of them. More than enough to dispatch them to their graves.

  Dinicoeur reflexively rubbed his prosthetic hand. He wondered what would happen once the Musketeers were dead. If he killed them before their future selves cut his hand off, would his old hand return? In truth, he’d probably vanish altogether. He’d have irrevocably altered history. If the Musketeers weren’t around, then he’d never be sent to the Bastille, which meant there’d be no need for him to track down the Devil’s Stone again and return to the past. . . .

  The person he was now would cease to exist. And in truth, he could imagine nothing better. The past four hundred years had been one long nightmare. If he vanished—and those memories vanished with him—so be it. What mattered was that Dominic Richelieu would thrive without the Musketeers to thwart him. And even though he, Dinicoeur, was Dominic, he didn’t feel it. Too much time had passed . . . too many drawn-out, torturous decades. He didn’t even think of himself as Dominic anymore. He thought of himself as Michel. But deep in his heart, he knew that Michel was just a facade, a means to an end. Dominic was the one who mattered.

  Of course, Dominic had been shocked when Michel had first presented himself. But he’d listened to Michel’s story and quickly grasped what needed to be done. He’d disappeared when Michel needed him to—so that none of the soldiers would realize there were two of them—and taken command when he needed to be two places at once. He’d even been proactive at times; when he’d found Greg in the king’s quarters with three boys who looked like teenage versions of the Musketeers Michel had described, he’d acted swiftly and tried to capture them.

  Now, Dominic had disappeared into the countryside again, allowing Michel to be the one who took care of the boys once and for all. Dominic understood his older self had dreamed of this moment for centuries. He would let his alter ego have his glory. And then, once the Musketeers—and perhaps Dinicoeur—were gone, he’d be free to track down the Devil’s Stone again. In fact, it wouldn’t take him long. Michel had told him where it was; after all, he’d found it before. Dominic had already put his plans in motion to get it. Soon he would obtain immortality . . . and amass his riches with impunity.

  A delicious thought flickered though Michel’s mind. If the trajectory of his life changed, so might that of history. If he remained powerful, the entire future of France and perhaps the world might turn out very differently indeed. The people affected most would be his descendants. Perhaps Stefan would stay by his side rather than flee to America. And if that happened, then Stefan’s American descendants—like Gregory and his doltish parents—would never exist either.

  And the world would be a much better place.

  Michel laughed at the thought. It was a shame he wouldn’t be around to see the future he’d create. But this was the only way to give his younger self the life he wanted. The life he should have had all along. It was hard to believe that everything he’d plotted and planned over nearly four hundred years was finally coming to fruition. At last, after all that time, he would have his revenge.

  Tonight, the Musketeers would die.

  Aramis thundered toward Paris. The horse Porthos had lent him kicked up dirt with its fierce gallop. The night wind whipped through his hair. His eyes smarted. He kept them pinned on the city lights ahead. He knew why he’d been picked for this solitary part of the mission: because he was the weakest swordsman. Well, perhaps he was better than Greg, though the boy from the future had shown some facility with a blade . . . fencing, he’d called it in English.

  But Greg was the only one who could swim.

  Three boys against a heavily fortified prison. Aramis was secretly relieved not to be in on the attack—though his relief was tempered by guilt that he wasn’t involved. Then again, his role wasn’t devoid of risk. In fact, it promised to be quite dangerous . . . but he reminded himself of what Greg had confided in him the night before: Focus on the positives.

  Rather than pass through the Bastille gate, Aramis circled the city, passing fields of wheat and slowly churning windmills, until he arrived at the main gate by the palace.

  Although Aramis was a wanted man, he knew that Richelieu (or Dinicoeur, or perhaps both) had shifted his attention to La Mort for the night. He was expecting the boys to be there, not entering the city. As such, his best soldiers would make their stand at the prison. Just as Aramis suspected, the soldiers on guard at the gate were raw and even younger than he was. Alone at night, he didn’t look like a threat. They let him pass.

  After tying his horse to a tree, Aramis approached the palace. The soldiers posted were similarly young and inexperienced. Several were asleep on the steps. Aramis skulked past them, then clambered up the scaffolding to the second floor and crept along it until he came to the prearranged window.

  His heart thumping, he pressed lightly on the window. With a quiet creak, it swung open. Holding his breath, Aramis slipped into the darkness of King Louis’s bedroom. A whoosh suddenly filled his ears. Aramis caught the gleam of a blade in the moonlight. The tip of it jabbed him in the chest, just to the left of his breastbone, situated perfectly to stab him through the heart.

  “Take one more step and you die,” the swordsman said.

  Athos and Porthos crept along the riverbank, towing the rowboat behind them.

  Porthos had bartered with a fisherman earlier that afternoon, trading one of his rings for the boat. The ring was probably worth a hundred times more than the flimsy craft, but Porthos had left his change purse behind when fleeing the estate. Besides, his family owned hundreds of other rings just like it. He could always replace it . . . assuming his father didn’t disown him after he’d brought the king’s guard to their door.

  Porthos had been in trouble before: plenty of times, in fact. But even he had the good sense to know that he’d never been in quite as much trouble as this. He figured the saving grace was that this time, he was doing something worthwhile. For the first time in his life, he felt motivated by a noble cause. He wasn’t merely having fun. He had no idea if his father would understand—he most likely wouldn’t—but Porthos knew he could gladly suffer whatever punishment lay in store . . . if they survived, of course.

  The going was slow along the bank. The boat kept getting hung up in reeds and tree roots, and the footing was squishy. Finally they arrived at a preselected tree stump: a perfect jettison point. La Mort loomed in the darkness on its island downstream. Porthos assessed the current of the river. If they put in here and rowed slowly, they’d end up right at the front gate of the prison.

  “Do you see him?” Porthos asked.

  Athos shook his head, concerned. “I don’t.”

  “Relax. He said he could swim.”

  “Perhaps he lied. I’m a great athlete and I can’t swim. Many men far more fit than D’Artagnan would drown en route
.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Porthos pointed. “Look there!”

  Athos peered into the night. Something bobbed in the water not far upstream from the island. The satchel! And then Greg surfaced beside it, just long enough to take a gulp of air before submerging again.

  “He’s almost there.” Porthos pulled the rope hand over hand, reeling in the rowboat. “Time for us to go.”

  “Silence from here on out,” Athos cautioned. “Voices carry across the water.”

  Porthos stepped into the boat, sat in the gunwale, and seized the oars. It was his job to row, because they needed to save Athos’s strength for battle. Athos climbed in, tightly clutching the swords, and pushed the boat away from the bank. Porthos began to paddle toward the deadliest place in France.

  The swim was harder than Greg had expected. Growing up in Connecticut, he’d swum in rivers plenty of times, but never at night. And certainly not fully clothed. He’d opted for some stockings and a thin shirt, but even those dragged him down. By the time he felt the ground under his feet, he was exhausted.

  He eased out of the river as quietly as possible. Thankfully, La Mort was upstream from Paris; Greg felt he’d swallowed at least a gallon of water during his swim. If he’d been downstream, he’d probably have been poisoned. Plus, he’d stink so badly the guards would be able to smell him.

  There was only a small bit of land, perhaps five or six feet across, between the base of the prison wall and the river. Greg was soaking wet, and the breeze made him shiver. There hadn’t been room for a towel in his bag . . . not that towels even existed yet. The best he could do was a small rag, which he used to dry his face, hands, and feet. He slipped his shoes on and checked his matches.

  His throat caught. Water had leaked into the satchel. His fingers shaking, he tore open the oilskin. If the matches were ruined, the rescue wouldn’t work—and he had no way of calling off the others. They’d have already put their plans in motion. To his relief, however, three of the matches were still bone dry. Greg carefully tucked them back in the dry part of the satchel and faced the prison.

  The wall was hewn from rough stone, allowing for many hand- and footholds. That was the plus side. In the darkness, of course, it was hard to make them out. When you were fifty feet up, you didn’t want to reach for what you presumed was a handhold and find out it was only a shadow. Still, there was nowhere to go but up. Greg blew into his hands to warm them, flexed his fingers, and then found his first grip on the stone.

  To his surprise, there were gaps between some of the rocks. They were all very narrow, not more than an inch or two, which had made them invisible from the riverbank. With a shudder, he realized they were windows. In drawings Greg had seen of old prisons, there had been much larger spaces to let in light, with iron bars to restrain the prisoners. These slits would allow only a small bit of fresh air and the tiniest sliver of light within each dark and fetid cell.

  Greg could hear some of the prisoners as he climbed higher. Ghostlike moans floated on the wind . . . along with what sounded like gibberish. Was it someone talking to himself? Who else did he have to speak to? At least Greg’s parents had each other . . . if they were even in the same cell.

  The slits did have one advantage: They made the climb much easier. Each was a solid foot- or handhold, and with them, Greg made it up the stone face with surprising speed. But he was worn out from the swim. His muscles burned. His legs were starting to spasm—the up-and-down stutter climbers called “sewing machine leg.” If he didn’t reach the top soon, he would be in trouble. He chanced a look up and saw that the edge of the parapet was only a few feet away. Another five moves and he’d be there. . . .

  That was when he heard the footsteps.

  Greg clung to the wall tightly and flattened his body against it. Within seconds, his muscles began trembling. His fingers started to slip off the stones. And his right foot was on a lousy hold, a small shard of wobbly stone. He needed to move, but it was impossible to do that without making a noise. And on this silent night, any noise, no matter how soft—a scrape of his leg against the wall, a sharp intake of breath—would alert whoever was patrolling the parapet that he was directly below.

  I hate time travel, he thought.

  “Monsieur Richelieu, there’s a boat approaching.”

  Dinicoeur took a moment to respond. After so many years, he’d gotten so used to not being Richelieu that he sometimes didn’t react right away when someone addressed him by his real name. He found a guard standing by his side. “What type of boat?”

  “Only a small fishing boat. But you said to be on the lookout for anything.” The guard pointed across the water, toward the north bank of the river.

  Dinicoeur removed a spyglass from his coat and peered through it.

  Two figures in a rowboat. Most likely fishermen going after eels. Nothing to worry about. After all, he was expecting four boys. . . . But one of these was rowing hard—toward the prison. Fishermen usually anchored or drifted with the current. He squinted through the lens and twisted the spyglass into focus. In the dim light, he could make out Athos in the bow. He stole a glance at his watch, tucked under the sleeve of his billowy shirt. He’d brought it from the future, as Greg had—but until this moment he’d kept it hidden so as to not raise eyebrows.

  It was only nine o’clock.

  Dinicoeur gritted his teeth. Rage surged through his veins. The Musketeers had tricked him! Somehow, they had figured out he was in league with Milady. They’d used that against him, giving her a false time for their attack on La Mort. The extra soldiers he’d arranged for weren’t here yet. He’d told them to take their places on the riverbank at eleven. Two hours away.

  He cursed under his breath. So, he’d underestimated their intelligence. No matter. Perhaps he didn’t have all forty men, but he still stood atop an impenetrable fortress—and they were mere boys. He didn’t know where the other two were, but he had Athos and Porthos, the most able of the bunch, in his sights.

  “Prepare the cannon,” he ordered.

  “I mean no harm,” Aramis whispered in the vast darkness of the king’s bedchamber, the sword still pressed tightly to his chest.

  “And yet, you have snuck into my home in the middle of the night.”

  Aramis blinked, recognizing the voice. “King Louis?”

  “Who were you expecting to find in my room at this hour?”

  “You, of course, Your Majesty. It’s just that . . . I thought you’d be asleep. Not armed with a sword. I’m a friend.”

  The king sniffed. “My friends usually enter through the front door.”

  “I mean, I met you here the other day. In this very room. I was with three other boys.” Aramis swallowed hard. He feared at any second he’d misspeak and the king would stab him right through the heart. “We have learned of something that is a great threat to you, and I needed to tell you of it immediately.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell my guards? They are charged with my protection.”

  “Because I couldn’t trust any of them, Your Highness.”

  There was silence. Finally, Aramis felt the sword pressed against his chest relax slightly. “I understand it was Milady de Winter who led you here yesterday,” the king said. “She claims you all infiltrated the queen’s quarters.”

  “True, Your Highness.” It took every ounce of self- control Aramis possessed not to move suddenly. “We did not intend to trespass. It was an accident. But that’s indeed where we met Milady. She’s very concerned for your safety. She’s the one who unlocked your window this evening, so that I might come to you.”

  The king was silent again. “What were they like?” he murmured.

  Aramis blinked in the darkness. “I beg your forgiveness. What was what like?”

  “The queen’s quarters. I’ve never seen them.” Louis’s tone seemed to soften a little. “Unlike some people, I’m not free to roam about, breaking into any rooms I wish.”

  “Oh, well . . . They were very nice. Very t
asteful. The queen will be pleased with them, I think.” Aramis was surprised. The line of questioning didn’t seem very regal. But then he had to remind himself: The king was only fourteen, even younger than he was.

  “That’s good to hear.” Louis lowered his sword from Aramis’s chest and sheathed it. “Now tell me about this trouble I’m in.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not enough time to explain it all here,” Aramis said. “I don’t suppose you’d care to go for a ride?”

  As Greg listened to Dinicoeur above, the wobbly stone beneath his right foot gave way. The night seemed to spin around him. His right leg dangled over the void. The fingers on his right hand slipped free. . . . But somehow, his left hand maintained its grip. He smacked into the stone wall, letting out a groan. The rock that had come loose tumbled away. After a long drop, it plopped into the Seine.

  Above, Greg spotted a pair of gloved hands grip the edge of the wall.

  He scrambled for another foothold. It didn’t matter how much noise he made now. Once a guard saw him, he’d have to move—

  A blinding explosion nearly tossed him off the wall. He cringed, feeling the concussion tremble through the entire prison. The quake was followed instantly by the screaming whistle of a cannonball. His eyes widened in horror as a geyser of water burst from where it struck the river.

  La Mort has a cannon? he thought, panicked. No. That wasn’t in the plans.

  The gloved fingers withdrew from the wall above, and booted footsteps raced toward the sounds of the explosion. Greg heaved a sigh of relief. Funny: The cannon had saved his life. Not so funny: It very well might kill Porthos and Athos. But the guard had left his post. Greg leaped into action. He found a foothold, then a handhold, then a few more. Within seconds, he had reached the top of the wall.

  Every guard had abandoned his post and raced to the far corner, where the cannon sat on a turret. Thankfully it must have missed its target, because they were all lining up their muskets and firing into the night. So, Athos and Porthos had diverted the attention of Dinicoeur’s men, but it wouldn’t be long before a musket ball—or worse, another cannonball—found them. Greg’s limbs felt like lead, but there was no time to rest. He rolled over the top of the wall and dropped onto the parapet.