The Musketeers all looked from one to the other. Greg knew—as did the others—that Aramis had a very strong argument. Trying to take out the bridge seemed like a far better plan than simply running back to Paris—although the thought of even attempting it was extremely daunting.
“This won’t be easy,” Athos finally said.
“No, it won’t,” Aramis agreed.
“I assume we’re going to need a great deal of explosives?” Porthos asked.
“Yes,” Aramis said. “But I know where we can get it.”
He pointed down the hill to the bottom of the valley. Toward the rear of the army procession, teams of oxen pulled carts heaped with barrels of gunpowder.
Greg’s heart sank. “We have to steal it?”
“Don’t worry,” Aramis said with a smile. “As usual, I have a plan.”
PART THREE
THE
AQUEDUCT
TWENTY-TWO
AS MICHEL DINICOEUR STORMED THROUGH THE ARMY camp, word of his approach rippled ahead of him. “El general! El general!” the soldiers whispered, then scrambled to present themselves as he passed. Normally Dinicoeur appreciated the respect, but tonight he was in a foul mood. He blew past the soldiers without as much as a glance, homing in on his tent.
The army was camped on a wide plain on the south bank of the Gard River, two miles short of the Pont du Gard. Dinicoeur would have preferred to have made more progress before stopping for the night, but beyond this point the river valley narrowed sharply and there would have been no space to accommodate so many men.
Dinicoeur commanded over two thousand soldiers. The army camp was bigger than most cities in France. The size of it surprised even Dinicoeur himself. When he had first approached Philip III about fielding an army to overthrow Louis, Dinicoeur had expected a few hundred soldiers at most. But Philip had sparked to the idea of conquering France with even more relish than Dinicoeur had anticipated. He’d originally offered well over a thousand men, and the ranks had kept swelling as the army had progressed north. Of course, Philip had supplied three generals as well, not trusting his soldiers to be led solely by a Frenchman, but they were now dead and buried, thanks to Dinicoeur. He and he alone was in control of the largest army to invade France since the Roman times.
He reached his tent, which sat in the middle of the camp. The camp was laid out in concentric rings, with the least important soldiers on the outside and the leaders in the middle.
Two soldiers stood guard on either side of the entrance. “Mi general!” they said in unison, then pulled aside the tent flaps so he could enter.
The tent was quite well furnished, given the circumstances. There was a desk, a chest for clothes, and even a small bed. Demanding some luxury might have been a bit decadent, but it also commanded respect.
Valois was waiting inside. He had made himself at home, sitting at the desk and honing his sword with a whetstone, though he snapped to his feet when Dinicoeur arrived. “Michel. This is quite an army you’ve amassed.”
“Keep your voice down, you fool!” Dinicoeur snapped. He came to Valois’ side and hissed in his ear. “As far as anyone knows, I am Dominic Richelieu.”
“But …” Valois began.
“Dominic and I decided it would be less confusing if there were only one of us here. He commanded the army for the first few weeks, while I attended to some other business in Madrid. Then I caught up to the army and we switched places. None of these idiot Spaniards has even noticed … as long as I’ve kept this hidden.” Dinicoeur held up his right arm. He had a glove pulled over the stump where his hand had been.
“Where is Dominic now?” Valois asked.
“He is monitoring our progress from a safe distance.” Though Dinicoeur didn’t say it, there was another reason he wanted Richelieu separated from him. It was dangerous to be in an army. As an immortal, Dinicoeur could handle anything that came at him—but if his younger self died before they got both halves of the Devil’s Stone, then Dinicoeur’s existence would be negated as well.
Valois looked around at Dinicoeur’s furnishings and chuckled. “This looks pretty safe to me. You’re surrounded by an entire army, living better than a king. What do you have to be afraid of?”
Dinicoeur looked at Valois pointedly. “The failures of my underlings.” He suddenly lashed out with his good hand and seized Valois’s arm. “I am already tired of your insolence. You haven’t earned the right to talk like that to me. I hear the Musketeers are still alive.”
“It’s not my fault!” Valois pleaded, his eyes wide in fear. “It was those so-called assassins who failed, not me!”
“Philip assured me they were his finest men,” Dinicoeur said.
“Then that speaks poorly of Philip’s army. I handed those boys to them on a silver platter—twice—and both times they failed to kill them.”
Dinicoeur suddenly threw Valois to the floor. “Any failure of a team is a failure of its leadership,” he said, seething. “They are only four boys! You had four assassins at your disposal!”
“They are not mere boys.” Valois staggered back to his feet. He looked meaningfully at the spot where Dinicoeur’s right hand had once been. “You learned that yourself, did you not?”
Dinicoeur stared at the stump of his arm and felt rage course through his body. “Yes, I did. That is one of the many reasons I want them dead. Now, no more excuses. Tomorrow, at first light, you will take ten men, you will leave this camp, and you will not return until you have the heads of all four Musketeers.”
Valois nodded. “I shall do as you desire. But I must ask, are the Musketeers worth so much trouble? You have an entire army at your disposal. Soon France will fall and Philip will install you as king. What can the Musketeers possibly do to stop you?”
“I don’t know,” Dinicoeur admitted. “But I don’t intend to give them the chance.” As he spoke, he became aware of a strange sensation in his chest. It took him a moment to realize it was the half of the Devil’s Stone, which he now wore as Philip had, beneath his clothes. It was pulsing softly, as though releasing energy.
Dinicoeur almost reached for it, but then caught himself before revealing the amulet to Valois. The stone was one of the many secrets he kept from Valois. No one knew about it except Dominic Richelieu …
And Greg Rich.
At the thought of Greg, the stone’s pulsing increased slightly. Dinicoeur had felt the stone act like this only once before, when he’d faced his younger self, although this time was different. The pulse was more muted, the energy altered.
Dinicoeur couldn’t explain it, but somehow, he suddenly understood what it meant. The stone, even just half of it, could sense his blood. Richelieu was his blood. Richelieu was him. And Greg Rich was his blood, too. A descendant four hundred years removed from him, but a descendant nonetheless.
“He’s close by!” Dinicoeur said.
“Who?” Valois asked.
“Greg Rich!” Dinicoeur snarled. “And wherever he is, the other Musketeers must be with him. Find them now!”
Valois nodded. “If they are indeed close by, then they will be dead by daylight,” he said, then exited the tent to assemble a new team of assassins.
TWENTY-THREE
THE SIZE OF THE PONT DU GARD WAS STARTLING.
The Musketeers had ridden ahead of the Spanish army to inspect it.
Greg had expected it to be a rather small bridge, given that it had only been designed to support water and the occasional horseback rider. Instead it was massive: sixteen stories high and nine hundred feet long, stretching between the steep, forested slopes of the valley. It was actually three bridges, each stacked atop the other. The lowest level was the largest, widest, and sturdiest, with five giant arches; it was on this level that the Roman road crossed the river. The middle level was just as tall, but longer, since the valley grew wider as it rose. The topmost level, which had carried the water, was significantly smaller, but the longest of all, with over twenty arches. The Gard River
churned angrily beneath it all.
“We’re going to need a big explosion to take that out,” Greg said.
“Yes,” Aramis agreed. “But if we set it off at just the right spot, everything will come crashing down. Right there.” He pointed to the central bridge piling on the lowest level, which sat in the middle of the raging river. “We can detonate the charge on the road right above that.”
“We’ll have to do it from a distance,” Athos cautioned. “Otherwise, we’ll get blown up along with the aqueduct.”
“Of course,” Aramis said. “That’s where you come in.”
He then explained Athos’s and Catherine’s jobs to them. Athos was disappointed to learn he wouldn’t be part of the force infiltrating the Spanish army, but Aramis pointed out that Athos would be of little help there with his wounded thigh.
“You’re not going to be of much more help with your wounded shoulder,” Athos said testily. Although everyone had agreed to work as a team, that didn’t mean everyone had completely set aside their differences. “A fat lot of good that will do you in battle.”
“If all goes well, there won’t be a battle,” Aramis countered.
In the end, Athos reluctantly crossed the bridge to the far side of the river with Catherine and the horses, while Greg, Aramis, and Porthos headed back down the valley toward the Spanish army on foot.
It was well into the night by the time they arrived. The tent city was surprisingly large, and Greg was daunted by the size. To make matters worse, Aramis’s plan called for them to walk right into it.
Greg wasn’t sure everything would work out as well as Aramis hoped. For one thing, he had no idea how they’d fit in when none of them spoke Spanish. But then, he had no other plan to suggest—and something had to be done. The future of human history hung in the balance. “How will these men know we’re actually on their side and not just infiltrating their camp to undermine them?” Greg asked.
“Because sending three men to undermine an entire army is either stupid or insane,” Porthos replied.
“Thanks,” Greg said. “I feel so much better about our mission now.”
“Just follow my lead,” Porthos told him.
The boys shed their tunics with the fleurs-de-lis, which marked them as servants of the king, and tossed them into the woods. Then they came straight down the road toward the camp.
The Spanish sentries snapped to attention as the trio approached. Half a dozen loaded crossbows were suddenly aimed at the Musketeers.
Porthos immediately dropped his sword and raised his hands over his head. “Don’t shoot!” he cried. “We want to join you! Long live Philip, king of Spain!”
Greg and Aramis raised their hands as well. “Long live Philip, king of Spain!” they echoed.
A sentry stepped forward, crossbow at the ready, looking them over suspiciously. “You are French?” he said.
“No,” Porthos said, shaking his head violently. “Not anymore. Down with King Louis!” He spat on the ground.
This, the Spanish understood. They burst into laughter, then cheered Porthos’s actions.
Greg and Aramis did the same, and the Spanish cheered them as well. The sentries collected their weapons and ushered them into the camp, although Greg noticed the Spanish were still keeping a careful eye on all of them.
The sentries led them through the outermost circle of tents, which seemed to be reserved for basic infantry, given that it was the most vulnerable to attack. Lots of soldiers didn’t even have tents; they simply slept on the ground, huddled together for warmth. Greg caught a glimpse of one of the oxcarts laden with gunpowder. The oxen had been freed from it and grazed among the tents.
Then Greg noticed the large tent in the center of the camp. It was far away, lit from within with flickering yellow light, as though there were a fire inside. As Greg stared at it, a chill went through him. Michel Dinicoeur is in there, he thought, although he couldn’t say how he knew for sure.
“Make way!” someone shouted. “Make way, you fools!”
Greg tensed. Although he hadn’t heard that voice in months, he knew it all too well. Valois.
The Spanish sentries leading the boys froze. Valois came charging through the camp, followed by three of the biggest men Greg had ever seen, all armed to the teeth. Valois suddenly paused, then spun to face the sentries.
Greg, Porthos, and Aramis lowered their heads, hoping that without their Musketeers uniforms on, they would blend into the sea of other boys and men in the army. To their relief, Valois didn’t notice them. He was too focused on the largest sentry.
“You,” Valois said. “How well can you handle yourself in battle?”
“Very well,” the sentry replied.
“Then come with us,” Valois said. “I have a job for you. I am organizing a hunting party at the direct order of General Richelieu.”
The sentry obediently fell in with the others, and Valois led them away without a glance back.
Greg realized he’d been holding his breath the entire time, afraid to so much as even exhale in Valois’s presence.
The remaining sentries led him and the others on to a large tent that signified it belonged to someone of importance. One sentry called out a welcome, and then an imperious-looking soldier emerged. He was an older man, around forty, and he also had the fleur-de-lis on his tunic, although his was marred by a dark black scorch mark. He cast an intrigued eye at the Musketeers, conversed briefly with the sentries in Spanish, then spoke to the Musketeers in French. “Why do you wish to serve King Philip?”
“Because he couldn’t possibly be more terrible than King Louis,” Porthos replied. “We were soldiers in the French army, but we were treated worse than dogs. We understand King Philip is a wise man who understands the value of good warriors.”
The Frenchman came closer, examining the boys in the firelight. “My name is Gérard. I served in the French army myself—under King Henry. You do not appear like warriors to me. One of you is wounded....” His eyes flicked to Aramis.
“In battle, I assure you,” Porthos replied. “The king sent our regiment to confront the forces of the Prince of Condé, then abandoned us. My friend here was wounded serving his king honorably, but the king did not honor us in return. That is why we stand before you now.”
Gérard nodded, then shifted his gaze to Greg. “And this one?” he asked. “He barely looks as though he can lift a sword, yet alone wield it in battle.”
“Then test him,” Porthos said.
Greg turned to Porthos, surprised, but his fellow Musketeer just smiled confidently.
Gérard selected a sword and tossed it to Greg. No sooner had Greg caught it than the older soldier attacked. Greg parried and responded. They went back and forth, swords clanging in the firelight. Gérard was an adept swordsman, but Greg held his own, defending himself against every challenge and aggressively counterattacking.
After two minutes, Gérard suddenly stepped away, sheathed his sword, and smiled at Greg. “I stand corrected. You can fight as well as anyone under my command. Perhaps even better. What is your name, boy?”
“My friends call me D’Artagnan.”
Gérard’s smile grew even larger. “You’re from Artagnan? No wonder you hate the king. I’m from the Roussillon, not far from you!”
And just like that, the Musketeers were welcomed into the Spanish army. Gérard ordered the sentries to return the boys’ weapons. Then he ushered the boys into his tent and demanded food and water be brought for them.
While the boys ate, Gérard traded war stories with them. Porthos had to make all theirs up, but thankfully he was convincing. Aramis and Greg simply nodded in agreement to whatever he said while stuffing their faces full of food. Eventually, in the midst of spinning a tale of how they’d been betrayed by the king’s army in battle at Avignon, Porthos cleverly found a way to pump Gérard for information. “There were only two men we respected in the entire army, and both of them quit in protest against the king’s rule. They were name
d René Valois and Dominic Richelieu.”
Gérard snapped up in his seat. “Valois and Richelieu? They are with us!”
The boys feigned surprise. “No!” Porthos said. “They are allied with the Spanish?”
“Even better,” Gérard said. “Richelieu commands the Spanish. That’s his tent in the center of the camp!”
Aramis couldn’t help but break his silence. “Why on earth did Philip ever give Richelieu a command? Isn’t his daughter due to marry Louis soon?”
Gérard laughed, as though Aramis were terribly naive. “Yes, she is. But that was merely a political move to gain access to the Netherlands through France. Philip was never pleased that he had to sacrifice Anne to Louis. So when Dominic Richelieu arrived in his court with a plan to topple France instead, Philip jumped at it. As you know, Dominic controlled the King’s Guard. Thus, he knows its weaknesses—as well as those of Paris itself—very well.”
“And what does Richelieu ask for in return?” Aramis asked.
“What else? Wealth and power,” Gérard replied. “I suspect Philip will set him up nicely, once France falls.”
“And what of Richelieu’s twin brother?” Porthos asked. “Is he involved in this campaign?”
“Twin brother?” Gérard asked curiously. “I know of no such man.”
Greg and the others exchanged a glance. So Michel was once again keeping himself hidden—or was posing as Richelieu while his brother stayed hidden.
“I suppose he must not be involved,” Porthos said quickly.
“But this other man you mentioned, Valois,” Gérard went on. “He arrived in camp just this night. I hear he went directly to Richelieu’s quarters. I haven’t met him yet, but I understand he is a great warrior, extremely gifted with a bow and arrow.”